Paved with Good Intentions: Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes
by Iced Blood
Summary: Side-chapters and scenes for "Paved with Good Intentions." Part 64: A guy can only take so much.
1. My Way to Comfort You

_**When I started "Paved with Good Intentions" two years ago, the idea behind it was that it would become a one-shot collection. It quickly became something much bigger than that; so big that it's become difficult to work out.**_

_** While I make strides on completing the first major story arc of GI, I decided to start a side project to keep my mind in the game while I work through the tedium that is revision, and hopefully to keep you all entertained.**_

_** Welcome to what "Paved with Good Intentions" was supposed to be.**_

_** Enjoy your stay.**_

* * *

><p>"If you could have one wish…like, if a genie showed up and offered to give you one thing…what would you wish for?"<p>

The two boys were sitting on a cracked, well-worn curb on the outskirts of the East Rivers Middle School parking lot, waiting for their respective rides. Mokuba Kaiba sat with his legs splayed out in front of him. His well-made but scuffed and battered sneakers, and his faded blue-jeans, belied the fact that he was probably the richest kid in Domino City. He also wore a custom-made t-shirt—purchased from his brother's fan club, of all places—with a picture emblazoned on the front of the richest _man _in Domino City. Seto Kaiba glared at everyone who looked at him, arms crossed above thick block lettering that read: **HE'S MINE. YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM.**

Connor Brinkley, on the other hand, looked the part of the rich kid far more effectively than Mokuba did. His parents weren't struggling but they weren't exactly wealthy, especially compared to the Kaibas. Connor, nonetheless, was dressed in clean khakis, brown loafers, a polo shirt and a thick brown jacket. Unadorned, professional…awkward. Where Mokuba's long black hair was shaggy and unkempt—he'd combed it that morning, honest—Connor's was short(er), cut at the nape of his neck, straight and tidy and very blond. Too blond, Mokuba thought sometimes.

Like, Draco Malfoy blond. Which…was _seriously _blond.

_Huh, _the young Kaiba thought idly. _Does that make me Crabbe? Or Goyle?_

"A wish?" Mokuba asked, raising a curious eyebrow. Connor leaned toward him, eager and interested. "I…don't know, really. You go first. Show me how it's done."

Connor frowned. He rubbed his thin chin, and seemed to be fighting with himself. Finally, after looking at his friend's face for a long moment, he said, "I…I think I'd like to…meet Benjamin Franklin." He averted his gaze almost immediately. "It's…stupid. I know. But…"

But Mokuba was smiling, and in the back of his mind he was putting a note on his mental to-do list: _Ask Niisama if he can use his pod holograms to make a virtual Ben Franklin. _He said, "No, that's cool. Ah…I think…my mom and dad."

Connor flinched. "Oh…I…um…" He seemed clearly unsure of what to make of that statement, and wanted to say something comforting. He couldn't. And honestly, Mokuba was glad. He'd never known his parents, and didn't feel much of anything when he thought about them. Except…

"Not…for that. I have Niisama. But…Niisama doesn't have anybody. I'd want a genie to bring them back…for him."

Before Connor could come up with a response, Travis Copeland pulled up in his pine green Subaru Forester, as polished and gleaming as if he'd just taken it from the dealership that morning. He stepped out of the shining SUV and stood there, tipping an imaginary hat to the pair and slipping his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He looked around at the other students milling about the lot, clambering into their family cars and lining up to climb up onto buses.

"I'll see you later, Connor," said Mokuba, and he slung his bag over one shoulder.

Connor smiled. "Sure."

The black-haired boy climbed into Travis's vehicle, clicked his seatbelt into place, and leaned back against the dark grey upholstery, brooding. He wouldn't ever tell this part of it to Connor, but that didn't mean he didn't know. Mokuba Kaiba didn't like to think of himself as selfish, but there wasn't any other word for it.

It was a stupid little fancy of imagination, but…still. If a genie popped out of some ancient lamp and offered to grant Mokuba a wish, he would indeed wish for his parents to come back. And he would, indeed, do it for his brother's sake.

But he wouldn't like it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Draco Malfoy, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle are—for the uninitiated—prominent side-characters in J.K. Rowling's "Harry Potter" series. Those of you who read "Back from the Dead" are likely under the impression that I still hate this story. I regret to say that I have since swallowed my pride and my words. I've read the whole thing, and it's an amazing creation.<strong>_

_** I'll be updating this project on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Chapters will be short, and likely consist of only a single scene. Each will be a snapshot into the lives and times of the Kaiba brothers, where its predecessor is something of a panorama.**_

_** I dearly hope you had fun. **__**See you all on Thursday.**_


	2. I Found a Reason for Me

**_If the first chapter has a theme, it's probably selfishness. This chapter's theme is peer pressure. The more overt theme is music, but in terms of psychology and emotions, the first one fits better. As in the first chapter, "My Way to Comfort You," this consists of one scene, although it covers a couple of settings. But, I won't talk too long. I'll let the scene speak for itself._**

* * *

><p>Seto didn't appreciate Mokuba's taste in music.<p>

It wasn't that he didn't _approve _of it; it was the general consensus of everyone who lived on the Kaiba Estate that if Seto-sama didn't approve of something, it wasn't permitted onto the grounds. The only exceptions—and they were a _very _recent addition—were Yugi Mutou and his friends, and _they_ were only permitted only on the rarest of occasions.

Seto didn't begrudge Mokuba his own tastes in terms of entertainment; but just the same he didn't pay much attention or attribute much importance to anything his little brother expressed to like. He turned his nose at ice cream, rolled his eyes whenever Mokuba's favorite television shows came on—though the young Kaiba was _still _rather convinced that his brother would really enjoy _Fullmetal Alchemist _if he just gave it a chance—and had never been much impressed with Mokuba's reading habits.

What Mokuba didn't realize was that Seto Kaiba was in fact quite studious when it came to his brother's interests, and _had _given every TV program Mokuba had ever watched its fair shot; if for no better reason than to have an informed hatred, and to know what it was Mokuba was doing with his time. Every book Mokuba picked up, from _Ender's Game _to _The Princess Bride, _he'd read thoroughly. He'd watched the exploits of the brothers Elric in their entirety, and had only been interested insofar as determining what it was that _Mokuba_ liked about it. Aside from that, he wasn't all that impressed.

However, this level of dedication to informed parenting didn't extend to music. Aside from a handful of soft ballads played to lull Mokuba to sleep, Seto hadn't listened to a single song in Mokuba's collection since the boy had turned six. On those rare occasions that Seto listened to music in the car, he insisted on _his _music; sweeping orchestral pieces and meticulously crafted violin solos and piano concertos. For his part, Mokuba tended to fall asleep when listening to this stuff, and only perked up when he recognized a piece that he'd heard Seto _play _on the ancient grand piano set into one corner of the front parlor of their home.

One day, after school, Seto came to pick his brother up. Instead of Travis Copeland's SUV, Mokuba was greeted by the sleek, stylish elegance of Seto's prized sports car. The other children, with whom he'd been speaking as he waited, were suitably awestruck by the masterful workmanship, asked if it was new, asked what it was, asked how much it had cost. But then they heard the music Seto had playing on the stereo.

"What's _that?" _asked one boy.

"Klemens Schnorr's variation on Bach's 'Toccata and Fugue,'" recited Mokuba, suddenly embarrassed where he'd never been before. He thought it had something to do with the way the small group was staring openly at him. Only Connor Brinkley seemed unaffected. Actually, he looked rather impressed. A tiny smile was playing on the blond boy's lips.

"Jeez, I'm sorry," said one of the girls, the first boy's twin sister.

_"Laaaaame."_

"Man, I thought your brother was cool. He listens to _that _junk?"

The commentary ceased immediately, partly due to the murderous spark that ignited in the young Kaiba's eyes—it vanished almost instantly, but it had been there; even Connor took a step back—and partly due to the fact that Seto had stepped out of the vehicle and was now standing beside it, hands in his pockets, looking like some species of emperor.

Mokuba waved goodbye, turned away, and walked toward his guardian. He gave Seto a quick hug, which was reciprocated by an affectionate ruffle of his messy black hair, and they both climbed inside the car. Before he could stop himself, Mokuba blurted out, "How come we can't ever listen to _my _music?"

Seto looked surprised. "What brought this on?" he asked after a moment of silence. He'd turned off the song, leaving them in silence. Mokuba might have said something like, "I didn't mean you had to turn it _off," _but he'd known his brother long enough and well enough to know it was pointless. Seto did nothing that he didn't mean to do.

"I...I don't...I don't know," Mokuba muttered. "Whatever. Never mind. It's nothing."

And that seemed to be the end of it. Mokuba spent the rest of the ride going through the compact discs in his brother's car, mumbling the titles to himself: _Mozart: The Violin Sonatas; J.S. Bach: Goldberg Variations; Masters of Classical Music; _and so on. He wondered why Seto—so engrossed in technology—hadn't traded in the CD player in his Veyron for a sound system with a USB port.

Days passed, and the almost-argument faded into memory. By the next time Seto found the time to pick his brother up from school again, Mokuba had forgotten it had ever happened. "Well, no radio's better than the crap he was listening to last time," muttered one of Mokuba's friends—acquaintances, really, aside from Connor—as Seto pulled up next to them.

Mokuba didn't bother to respond, barely recalling what that even meant.

He heard Connor say, "You might want to shut up about Mister Kaiba's music," in a soft voice, and smiled.

"Why? Think I'm scared of Seto Kaiba?"

"No. _He _doesn't care. But you _should _be a..."

And so the conversation went. Mokuba ignored it in favor of tossing his bag into the backseat and clicking on his seatbelt. Seto picked up a case, opened it, and slipped the disc into the player without a word as they drove off.

Mokuba was expecting the usual crash of cymbals and warbling strings; the authoritative report of an organ or the mysterious skittering of piano. When his ears were instead met by an instantly familiar, slow and melodic opening electric riff, and an even more familiar singing voice declared: _"We've walked together down this winding road…in search of something true…together we grew…" _the black-haired boy gave a double-take, and stared openly at his silent sibling's face.

Seto didn't say a word the whole way home.

But Mokuba would have sworn that, as the song picked up tempo, he spied his brother's left thumb tapping along to the beat on the steering wheel, and a suspiciously-close-to-pleasant expression on his face.

* * *

><p><strong><em>I stand by my reasoning that Mokuba enjoys "Fullmetal Alchemist" for one very simple reason: brotherhood. It's perhaps <em>the _hallmark theme of the entire story, and tell me Mokuba wouldn't appreciate that. Far more than Seto does, apparently, but then...Seto's a bit of a misanthrope. So we'll forgive him for now. As to the books he's read, "Ender's Game" is less about family and brotherhood, and more about the fact that the titular character is almost a dead ringer for Seto as a boy, and Mokuba's smart enough to catch on, I think. So I'm sure he'd like that. "Princess Bride" has no ulterior motive. I just think it's rather entertaining. The movie, at the least, is hilarious._**

**_The albums in Seto's car are real, but I can't claim to own any of them. I do, however, claim the version of Bach's "Toccata and Fugue in D Minor" referenced near the beginning. I found it in, "The 99 Darkest Pieces of Classical Music," a compilation MP3 album from Amazon(dot)com. Yes, I know, it's dramatic and probably over-played. But it's also meticulously crafted, something I think Seto would understand and appreciate. So roll with me on it, huh? Please?_**

**_That said, I hope you enjoyed this scene. I'll see you Saturday._**


	3. And That's Just the Way it Is

_**The Brinkley family is a common thread with me; that is to say, Connor and his parents were initially invented for no better purpose than to allow for the first major conflict of the story. The first chapter of the original work, "Good Intentions," involves Mokuba cheating on an assignment in class to help a classmate. I needed a name for that classmate.**_

_** Hence, Connor Brinkley was born.**_

_** As time has gone on, I've also attempted to come up with the rest of his family; who these people are, what they do, what they believe. In pursuit of that, I gain further insight into Connor, which helps me to understand Mokuba, who has befriended him.**_

_** Hence, this little scenario.**_

_** Enjoy.**_

* * *

><p>It was disconcerting to go anywhere with Seto Kaiba.<p>

Enid Brinkley had known from the very beginning, on the first day she'd ever met the man, that he was...severe. But she didn't realize that for him, what she'd seen so far was _relaxed._

This day, Enid and her husband were at the mall. Seto had happened across them. She had thought it was a good thing, as Leo had never met him. "What a nice coincidence!" she'd said happily. "Leo? High time you two met, don't you think?"

She hadn't needed to introduce him. Everyone who'd lived in Domino City for longer than a week knew Seto Kaiba by name and face, if not reputation. He was everywhere. He _was _Domino City, in a way.

"A pleasure, sir," Leo said, holding out a hand.

Seto shook it firmly, nodding. "Leonard Brinkley. Connor's father."

"Yes, sir."

They'd almost heard the little check-mark being scratched in Seto's mental day-planner beside, "Meet Connor Brinkley's father." And that seemed to be the end of it for Seto. He answered questions when asked, but they were clipped and short, and eventually both Brinkleys stopped. "Not exactly a social butterfly," Leo noted.

Enid chuckled. "Mokuba must have gotten it from somewhere else."

"Connor invited Mokuba to eat lunch with him," Seto said without looking at them. "Matthew Kerns was present. Have you spoken to him, Missus Brinkley?" They didn't see his face, but they could both tell without checking that his expression wasn't pleasant. "Regarding his conduct?"

"I have," Enid said. "Leo gave him a bit of a talking-to, as well."

"I apologize for the way he's been acting," Leo said. "He usually isn't _this _bad."

"He usually does not have a target," Seto said.

It sounded like it should have been a guess, but it felt more like stone-cold fact.

"...Could be."

Seto was dressed in a stark-white suit, and it almost looked like it was glowing. The only parts of his wardrobe that _weren't _pristinely and cleanly white were the traces of black etched into his shoes. Though he was still known for wearing trench coats, he did not wear one today.

People noticed him; some stared, some cheered, a few snapped pictures. One asked for an autograph. Enid expected the elder Kaiba to brush past the girl—whose parents were nearby, looking embarrassed—and ignore her, but he took the game case (one of Kaiba-Corp's products, Enid figured) she offered him, took a marker from a pocket and swept his signature onto one corner of the cover art.

Nearly swooning, crying out that he was the best _ever, _the girl all but skipped back to her family, laughing and grinning and looking as though she'd just been blessed by some breed of messiah. The girl's parents looked flabbergasted. Enid was sure that she looked the same way. Leo looked thoughtful; of course, he had a much more limited scope of Seto Kaiba's personality. He was more mildly puzzled than actually shocked.

"That was…nice of you," Enid offered lamely.

Seto did not reply.

He walked with great, sweeping strides that bespoke a man of purpose, and it struck Enid Brinkley that she had never seen the man in public before. She'd never seen how he interacted with the public. She noticed that he tended to ignore just about everyone, except the children. Every boy or girl—from seven years old to sixteen—who approached him, he acknowledged. He nodded, he shook hands, he signed his name, he spoke to them.

It was the adults in whom he seemed to have no interest whatsoever.

"Ah…we're taking a day trip to Santa Cruz later on in the month," Enid mentioned after a period of silence. Seto did not respond, but she was sure that he'd heard. "The 18th? Connor got six A's on his progress report last week, and we wanted to treat him. He's been wanting to go for months. He asked Mokuba to come with us. Mokuba said that he would ask you. Have you decided?"

Normally, Enid would have left the inquiry more open-ended than that. She might have simply stopped at, "He asked Mokuba to come with us?" but she had learned over time that Seto had neither time nor tolerance for incomplete thoughts. If there was no direct question, he would not answer. She thought that he might have made allowances for them, because of Connor—and more specifically, because of Mokuba—but she figured it was best, for the boys' sakes, to play on his terms.

It was easier.

Seto did not answer at once. "Mokuba did mention that," he said. "That weekend is…problematic. I've not yet concluded whether or not we can spare him for the day." Leo looked quizzically at his wife, but Enid simply shook her head.

She wasn't sure what she thought of just how much responsibility Seto seemed to place on his young sibling's shoulders, but she couldn't deny that Mokuba was up to it. He seemed to _like _it. She had a sneaking suspicion that he _asked _to work for the Kaiba Corporation at his age, and that he had to convince his brother to say yes.

That seemed to be the end of the discussion.

They approached the food court, where Connor and Mokuba were sitting at a round table, eating. Matt was with them, leaning back on the back legs of his chair, brooding and scathing as always. The blond man Enid recognized as Joseph "Joey" Wheeler was also there, standing behind the boys and looking around. They all seemed deep in conversation.

They hadn't noticed anyone else.

Seto stopped moving forward, slipping next to a trash bin just out of sight of the group.

"…C'mon, rich boy," Matt was saying. "Your brother's some kinda computer freak, isn't he? You _gotta _know how to get past the stupid thing."

"I could probably figure it out," Mokuba replied, "but I won't."

"Don't be like that. I said I was sorry, right? Jeez. Fuckin' stupid. I can't find _anything _with that damn Nanny thing on. I bet _you _don't have one of those things on _your _computer, do you?"

"I don't." Seto held out a hand to halt Enid and Leo, who were starting forward again. In response to their confused expressions, he simply looked back at them, a smirk on his face. He actually winked. He held up a finger as if to say, _Wait._

"Tch. Figures. Lets you do whatever you want, don't he?"

"No," Mokuba said. "Niisama trusts me. He built me that computer himself. It's top of the line, best of the best, and he keeps it that way. If he wants me to stay away from weird stuff on the internet, it's the least I can do to repay him."

Matt scoffed.

Joey glanced over to the three of them, caught Seto's eye. The elder Kaiba made a cranking gesture with his right hand, and the blond seemed to understand because he winked and said, "You serious, kid? Not _once? _You ain't ever turned Safe Search off and Googled…I dunno, Angelina Jolie 'r somethin'? I know yer, like, six, but still. Gotta be curious sometimes, right?"

"Shut up," Mokuba said, but he was smiling. "No. I haven't."

"Whatever," Matt said. "C'mon, Con, _you _convince him. You're buddy-buddy or whatever. You can't tell me _you _want that thing blockin' all the good stuff, do you? He'll do it for _you._ Betcha he will."

Mokuba looked at Connor, a curious expression on his face.

Connor was looking at his cousin with obvious dislike. "He said he's not going to do it. Drop it, Matt."

"But you want him to, don'tcha?"

"Mom and Dad put that on for a reason," Connor said. "Probably to keep _you _off of it." And that was the end of it for Connor. When Matt tried to bring it up again, the boy glared at him, and Enid blinked in surprise; she couldn't remember ever seeing her son look quite so stern. "The internet at our house is mo-ni-tored. That's it. We're done. _Drop it."_

Enid smiled. Glancing at Leo, she saw that he was grinning like a fool. They looked at each other, and nodded. Both were thinking the same thing: _That's our boy._

Seto was still smirking. But there was something about that look that wasn't pure amusement. Enid couldn't quite pinpoint what it was that told her this, but all the same she couldn't shake the feeling that _he_ was prouder of Connor's behavior than _they _were.

He strode out into the food court, hands in the pockets of his obscenely expensive slacks. Mokuba finally noticed him, and a look of surprised delight spread over his face. "Done already, Niisama?" he asked.

Seto ruffled his brother's hair.

And he said, "So…I hear tell you're going on a trip soon."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Matt Kerns made his first appearance in chapter three of the original Good Intentions, called "Lullaby," and any question as to why Seto isn't all that fond of him can be answered there. Suffice it to say, him dumb guy. <strong>_

_** I work on the assumption that Mokuba is a fundamentally good kid, and as such would only befriend similar sorts. Considering the crap he's dealt with from adults, I think it's easy to assume that he can see right through the mind games other children play to hide their true natures. He can read people, just like his Niisama.**_

_** I don't mean to say that if Connor **_**had **_**asked for help getting past the monitoring software (Net Nanny, more likely than not) on his home's internet connection that Mokuba would have disowned him…but I don't think he'd have done it, either. **_

_**No. I don't consider that a good thing.**_

_** Read into that what you will.**_

_** See you Tuesday.**_


	4. Nothing Can Come Between Us

_**I'm trying to cover a separate theme with each of these, but admittedly this one kind of ties into the second chapter, as well as the third. Not too obviously, but it's a concept that's been rolling around in my mind for a while now, and it's influenced the way I've looked at each of these scenarios.**_

_** In this case, I ask it flat-out. Or, someone else does it for me.**_

* * *

><p>"Why you figure they never fight?"<p>

The question was sudden, and for a moment Yugi Mutou didn't even realize that it had been addressed to _him. _He glanced over, saw that Tristan Taylor was watching him, and blinked. "Huh?" he asked stupidly.

Tristan ran a hand over his short-cropped brown hair, scratching behind his left ear, and said, "Kaiba. And Mokuba. They're brothers. I mean...I used to fight all the time with Stacie. Coupl'a times we just about disowned each other. An' Joe. Him 'n Serenity get into it every so often. Usually about their mom. So...why's it feel like Kaiba 'n Mokuba just...don't do it? Ever."

Yugi mulled this over. He was no stranger to the eternal mysteries of the Kaiba brothers' relationship, and he'd probably put more thought into the subject than anyone in Domino City, except perhaps McKat, head moderator for the _Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes _message boards. Yugi had perused the Kaibas' fan-club a few times over the past few weeks, and couldn't help but marvel. So used to meeting with people who hated Kaiba with a fervent passion, he'd largely given up on the idea that there were people—aside from Mokuba and himself and, maybe, Joey—who rather admired him.

Not so much.

Yugi thought back on a similar discussion he had seen on one of the website's forums, and murmured, "I think it's...a product of their pasts, really." He looked at Tristan, who perked up with surprised interest, and expanded on this: "Normal siblings fight. It's the natural order of things. I bet Bakura and _his _sister had their share of arguments. But that's because they're normal. They have families. Parents to handle the big stuff so that they can let the little stuff take over their lives. You, and Joey, and Bakura, had time to devote to arguing with your sisters. Kaiba doesn't have that with his brother."

"What?" Tristan asked. "Yug, I know Kaiba's busy and all, but...come on."

"That's not what I mean," Yugi replied. "I mean...think about what they've been through. Mokuba's been kidnapped enough times that it's probably a world record. They've almost been killed three or four times, and that's just counting _normal_ situations. Never mind magic."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. He adjusted his jacket, wiped a hand over his blue undershirt and picked a loose thread off of it. "...So you figure...what? They don't fight because...?"

"Because for them, it's a very real possibility that every time they talk to each other is the last chance they'll ever have," Yugi said. "And besides...when was the last time you heard of an eleven-year-old boy getting into a fight with his dad? Like, a _real_ fight?"

Tristan frowned. "I guess...but...they're still brothers. I mean, no matter what living situation they're in, no matter what role Kaiba fills, they're still brothers first and foremost."

Yugi looked unconvinced. "Maybe. I have a hard time believing that, though. I think, first and foremost, they're partners. Then they're father and son. Then they're friends. I'm not sure 'brother,' the way we think of the word, ever comes into it." He turned to the counter of the Turtle Game Shop and watched the wall phone for a while. "In any case, I think it's even simpler than that, really, when you get right down to it." He glanced at his friend.

"'Cuz dey wuv each-udder?" the brunette asked with a half-sneer, clearly not finding this to be a convincing argument. "I love my sister. Joey loves his. I'm _sure _Bakura loved Amane. We fight. In a twisted sorta way, it's what proves it. When we fight over something, it's proof that it matters to us. Without that, it turns into apathy."

Yugi shook his head, stone-set serious. "They were taught by their adopted father that no fight is ever less than a struggle for survival. And every fight those two have ever been involved in has been life-or-death. Gozaburo Kaiba, Pegasus, Malik, even Yami. Kaiba doesn't believe in fighting and arguing for anything less than that. If the matter isn't important, he concedes to whatever Mokuba wants. If it _is _important, he puts his foot down and Mokuba relents, because Niisama knows best. That's…pretty much it. It's not apathy, it's just that they don't really run into situations where a difference of opinion ends in an explosion." He sighed as if he thought this was unfair. "They think of fighting as a sacrilege, because in the end of a fight, there's a winner and a loser. The victor and the shamed. They weren't taught how arguments can be constructive. I think if you've been to war, getting into a fistfight over pocket change isn't worth it anymore. And I think the same thing goes for them."

"Kaiba don't fight with Mokuba about stupid shit 'cuz it ain't worth it? And Mokuba don't fight with Kaiba over _anything_ 'cuz he knows Kaiba wouldn't make a big deal out of it if it wasn't important?"

Yugi nodded. "Yeah, basically."

"You seriously think that's the answer."

"I do," Yugi said. "I think they don't fight because they just plain can't."

* * *

><p><em><strong>People fight. As Yugi says, it's the natural order of things. However, a couple of factors drive my running theory that full-on arguments don't happen with these two.<strong>_

_** One, Mokuba is at that "calm before the storm" age right at the precipice of puberty. Once it does, the process starts all over again and Seto will have a self-centered, impulsive, "jump first, check for the parachute later" toddler—I mean, teenager on his hands. Not that Mokuba's teenage rebellion stage will reach that level, and that leads to the second part.**_

_** Mokuba is wholly devoted to making his brother happy, and proud of him. He says in one episode of the second anime, during the Noa storyline: "I don't care how much I suffer. I want to help my brother." In another episode, the virtual game filler arc right after Duelist Kingdom, he says: "Without Niisama, I'd have no reason to live."**_

_** Part of that is straight hero worship; his brother is the center of the world. The coolest, the smartest, the king. But it also stems from this: during his formative years, he didn't have Mom, or Dad, or Grandma, or Gozaburo to teach him and help him grow. He had his brother. Seto was his first fundamental human connection during infancy, and it's through that constant that he's learned how to bond.**_

_** Thus, if Niisama puts his foot down…that's the end of it.**_

_** And on the flip-side, Mokuba' s been through so much crap in his life (for which I believe Seto feels fundamentally responsible) that if it isn't worth making a point, Seto lets him have it. I'm not saying Mokuba is spoiled. The precise opposite, in fact. But I also think that the standard paradigm doesn't apply here. I think Tristan is wrong; they aren't brothers. They weren't given the chance. But through that, they**__** understand what so many of us try: "It's no use crying over spilled milk." So for those who think their relationship is broken, or unhealthy, or will never lead to anything good because they cling too much to each other (and I know you're out there)…I'm not so sure.**_

_** Let me know what you think about that, and I'll see you Thursday.**_


	5. We're Just Boys Makin' Noise

_**I know, it's late. In a few hours, it won't be Thursday anymore. I was working out a couple kinks.**_

_**One of the things I've enjoyed most about "Paved with Good Intentions" is that it's given me a chance to explore Domino City's population outside of dueling. A character that I've had a lot of fun with, in spite of the fact that she's only shown up a couple of times, is Joanna Lorwell.**_

_** She's Mokuba's English teacher, and that probably has a lot to do with why I enjoy writing her. After all, she's living my dream. Another character connected to Joanna is her sister, Jennifer, who works for Domino's orphanage. In the first chapter of the original work, they were together for one scene, and that was it. I decided to try again, and see what things were like for Jo around her family.**_

_** I added another spice into the mix, for the fun of it.**_

* * *

><p>Joanna Lorwell exuded a certain aura of quiet authority that made Mokuba feel nervous about entering her room after school let out, in spite of the fact that he was pulling an A in her class.<p>

But if Mokuba was nervous, Connor was petrified.

He looked like the door to Miss Lorwell's room was the gate leading into a prison block, and Mokuba nudged him as he opened it. "You might wanna try looking _less _guilty. You're not asking for her firstborn."

"I…I _know_, but…"

They entered.

Miss Lorwell was leaning on the front of her desk, arms crossed. She was laughing. Standing near her was a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and a blocky, severe face that was now—jarringly—looking rather pouty. "I still think they could've been something, if the gingersnap hadn't come back into the picture." At this, Joanna snickered.

The man's arms, thick and corded with muscle, were bare; Mokuba was slightly surprised that they weren't covered with tattoos.

Behind Miss Lorwell and her…bodyguard? Perched atop the filing cabinet with a music player in her hands and headphones covering her ears was a young woman Mokuba recognized. Her green-streaked, spiky black hair was a dead giveaway.

It struck the young Kaiba that this man was sporting the sort of fashion that Matt Kerns _tried _to pull off—though effortlessly rather than entirely forced—and the girl on the cabinet had the hair.

It was Jennie, one of the employees Seto had recruited to the Domino Children's Home.

The man turned and saw the two boys. Connor squeaked and took an instinctive step behind Mokuba, who only looked mildly curious. He waved. "Hi," he said easily, unconcerned and confident.

The man saluted. "Yo."

Joanna shook her head, scoffing. "You're out of your mind," she said. "They kissed _once, _and besides…the whole thing was superficial at best."

"Oh, right," said the big man, "like the whole thing with Ginny wasn't forced."

Suddenly Mokuba understood what was going on. His grin widened. Connor just looked confused. Joanna's eyes slid over to Mokuba and Connor, and _her _grin widened as well. "There you are. Mokuba, Connor, this is Charlie," she gestured to the man, "and the antisocial rebel without a point," she jerked a thumb behind her, "is Jennie."

Mokuba nodded. "I remember Jennie. Niisama hired her to work for Big Kristine."

Jennie glanced over. Seeing Mokuba, her eyes widened. She flashed a grin and waved entirely too enthusiastically. Pulling the headset down around her neck, she said, "Hi, there! I know you!"

"Hi," Mokuba waved back. "So…how do you know Charlie? Or…how does he know you?" The young Kaiba wasn't sure if he should be asking this, but he liked Miss Lorwell, and he was curious. No one could claim that Mokuba did not ask a question when he wanted an answer. He wondered if the man was her boyfriend, or her husband, or her lawyer. For all he knew, the man was a clinical anthropologist.

"Oh!" Joanna grinned. "Charlie's _my _big brother."

Charlie winked. "Two years."

_"Our _big brother," Jennie huffed with false exasperation. _"Gawd!"_

"And this, Charlie, is Connor Brinkley and…" Joanna slipped into a fake, stern British accent, "…Mister Kaiba. Our new…celebrity."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. He replied in an equally fake accent of his own: "Is it true, then? Is it true 'e 'as a scar on 'is fore'ead?"

Mokuba laughed.

Connor still looked confused.

Joanna was chuckling. "What can I do for you, boys?"

"Ron wanted to ask a question about the homework, Professor," Mokuba offered.

Charlie laughed now.

"Huh?" Connor asked, thoroughly flustered. "Wha—oh. _Me. _Sorry. I…I don't…"

"…Maybe he's Neville," Mokuba murmured under his breath. "Do you like plants, Connor?"

"What? Uh…I…guess?"

"I…Never mind. Ignore me."

Connor just shook his head and looked back at their teacher. "Um…Miss Lorwell? I was wondering, for…for the Shakespeare presentation…instead of poster-board, could I use a PowerPoint? Like, put all the pictures and stuff onto slides and put it on a flash drive?"

Joanna mulled this over. "…I don't see a problem with that. Just give credit if you find your pictures on the internet, on the last slide. Okay?"

Connor brightened considerably. A smile lit his face. "Okay!" he declared. "I will!"

"Good. Go ahead, then."

"Thanks, Miss Lorwell!"

Charlie was frowning now, rubbing his square jaw. "You _do _look familiar, Potter," he said, looking at Mokuba; continuing the metaphor as though it were stone truth. "I've seen you on the news."

"Ch'yeah," Jennie said, snorting. _"Duh."_

"What did you see?" Joanna wondered.

Charlie crossed his arms. "That Sirius blew Voldemort's face off with a semi-automatic," he said, and he looked like he wasn't sure if this joke was appropriate or not. Judging by his sisters' faces, it wasn't.

_"Charlie!"_ Jennie hissed. Joanna's jaw was set.

"Too soon?" Charlie asked, and he looked over at Mokuba. "Sorry, man. I don't really think before I…" He trailed off.

Mokuba looked the exact opposite of offended. He looked like a rather obsessively devout churchgoer on Easter Sunday. His eyes were wide as soup plates, and his mouth parted the slightest bit. Connor frowned at him. "I don't get it. What are you even…?"

An awestruck little smile spread on the black-haired boy's face. "Sirius…" he whispered, like it was the sweetest word ever uttered by a human mouth. "S-Sirius! _Yes!" _He looked like his birthday had come early. "Why didn't _I _see that?"

The tension in the room evaporated.

"Story of my life," Charlie said, smiling again. "Off-color jokes, _should_ land me in a courtroom, end up impressing the right person." He looked at his sisters. "Remember when I told that walrus story around Dad's boss? Got me a foot in at a law office."

_"Are _you a lawyer?" Mokuba asked suddenly, still looking manically euphoric.

"Thought about it," the big man said. "Then I realized it meant I'd have to _work _for a living. So, decided to be a rock star instead. Live up to my mother's worst expectations of me." He winked. "I gyrate around and screech stupid words into a microphone for Backyard Bombshell. Heard of us?" He asked this like he was sure none of them had. "We're playing Kaiba-Con this year. Your brother just started that gig a year ago, right?"

Mokuba nodded.

"Cool. We're like pioneers. Except…not."

As if summoned by their thoughts of and conversation about him, in strode Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba, dressed in a pitch-black suit—all except an indigo tie—looking supremely uninterested in the behemoth that was Charlie, who was several inches taller than he was and considerably larger.

"Finished, boys?" he asked quietly.

Mokuba whirled, and threw his arms around his big brother like he hadn't seen him in months. _"Snuffles!"_ he all but shrieked, a wide grin on his face. For one solitary moment, silence made time itself do a double take, and they all heard a record scratch the air.

Then they all, including Connor, exploded into a fit of laughter that rang, echoed, and danced through the room.

If there were, in fact, words to describe the expression on Seto's face at that moment, they weren't in a language any of them knew.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Yes. Joanna, Jennifer, and Charlie are all nerds. What? Wanna fight about it?<strong>_

_**I mentioned in the first chapter that my hatred for J. K. Rowling's magnum opus has not only abated, but reversed itself. I have a lot of respect for what she's managed to do with the Harry Potter universe, and I can only imagine how it feels to have a body of work so widespread and universally loved.**_

_** And so, a chapter laced with HP references, just because I'm reading the series over again, and I find it entertaining. I hope that you do, as well. If not, I apologize. I probably would have been right there with you a couple years ago. But remember; the wait's only 'til Saturday.**_

_** For the uninitiated, here's my rationale for the references. Mokuba, like the titular Harry Potter, is an orphan. Like Harry, Mokuba grew up with no memory of his parents, is famous for something largely out of his control, has been the target of any number of magical incidents, his only real parental figure is a surrogate, and he has entirely untamable black hair.**_

_** As to Seto, the connection is with Sirius Black. Bitter, sarcastic, angry at the world. Comes from a rich family but doesn't take much pride or solace in the fact, takes care of a child who isn't biologically his own, isn't afraid to kill if he feels it's necessary, and absolutely loathes staying idle, preferring instead to act regardless of potential consequences.**_

_** "Snuffles" is a reference to a codename Sirius insists that the main characters use when writing to him, as he's an escaped convict.**_

**_The "Sirius blew Voldemort's face off" bit is a reference to the current storyline of the original GI, which is close to completion, called "Shot in the Dark."_**

_** Oh, and this chapter's title comes from the chorus of Tim McGraw's "Southern Voice," from the 2009 album of the same name, for those who might be interested.**_

_**That pretty much sums it up. Hope you guys had fun. I did.**_

_** See you this weekend.**_


	6. God is Only in My Head

_**The previous chapter, for lack of a better term, was a bit of a parody/homage. I've been reading the Harry Potter series for the second time, and that chapter afforded me the chance to explore one of the more interesting paradigms that I noticed. That is to say, if you want to know why one of my favorite characters in the series is Sirius Black, now you know. He's the Seto of that universe.**_

_** Seto has more than a little Tom Riddle in him, as well (Tom, not Voldemort; I mark a distinct difference), but as far as choosing a counterpart, it's good old Padfoot. So, with that said, this scene here is a return to form, as it were.**_

_** This time is a bit different, though; this time, we're taking a turn down memory lane.**_

_** A disclaimer before we begin; I mean no offense to any religion or religious individual; this is simply an observation on my part, and I hold to it. So, let us begin.**_

* * *

><p>Hannah Lamont looked altogether scandalized when she heard the question. Personally, Kristine Hathaway thought it was not only expected, but perfectly acceptable.<p>

How was a four-year-old boy supposed to know what religion was?

"I'm...sorry, little one. What did you say?"

Little Mokuba Yagami looked perplexed at this question, and stared at Hannah like he thought she might be sick. He toyed with the hem of his t-shirt and repeated: "...Who's God Bless? You keep saying all'a time. God Bless, God Bless. Who's that?"

"I...I..."

"I almost feel bad for her," Kristine said as Daniel Elliot approached, looking amused. She looked at the man with a strange expression on her face. "They never had time to learn about religion, did they?"

Daniel shook his head. "I talked to one of their mother's friends once. She told me that Missus Yagami didn't believe in taking her children to church until they understood what it meant to go there. And their father was agnostic, so he really didn't have a stake in the argument, anyway."

Somehow, it didn't surprise Kristine that Seto and Mokuba hadn't been exposed to church, or religion, or God. She was sure that Seto understood it all—as Seto seemed to understand everything—but she was also sure that the older boy hadn't bothered to teach his brother about it. She didn't like to think that Atheism—no more than any other belief system—had specific defining traits, but she _did _think that if she were going to find them, nearly all of them would be in thin, withdrawn, cynical little Seto Yagami.

"Well...um...a blessing isn't a name, sweetie," Hannah said, trying a smile but still obviously flustered. "It's something that happens. It means good things will happen for you. And...and the one who does that, the one who blesses people...is God." Mokuba looked at her with a blissful expression on his face, eyes upturned and smile wide. "Do you understand?" she asked.

Looking rapturous, Mokuba said, "No."

Kristine had to cover her mouth as she sputtered with laughter. Daniel was smiling. It was no secret that they were fond of the Yagami children, and as far as they were concerned, they had good reason to be. It was true that Seto was rather stern—often to the point of arrogance, if he thought he was being held back from something—and that Mokuba had a tendency to run about the place as though he answered to no one—barring, of course, his Nii'tama—but all told, they honestly caused far less trouble than most of the other boys.

Seto's attitude, while grating and abrasive for the workers and potential adopters, did wonders to keep his young sibling in line.

Most of the time.

Hannah knelt down in front of the excitable toddler. Daniel crossed his arms, and his stance turned easy. He seemed to want to watch this. Truthfully, Kristine did as well. Hannah glanced at them reproachfully, but they couldn't help but grin at her. She'd walked right into it. She said, "...God is...God is everywhere, little one. He takes care of us. He watches over us. He makes sure that we live happy lives, and...and He protects us. And all He asks us to do in return is love Him, and honor Him."

_Hm,_ Kristine thought idly, _not bad._

Daniel was grinning like a fiend, and Kristine wondered for a moment why he would be. Then she looked back at Mokuba Yagami, and saw dawning comprehension on his little face. "Oh..." he said, and he was nodding enthusiastically.

"You know who God is, don't you, little one?" Hannah asked, smiling sweetly.

"Uh-huh! Uh-huh!" Mokuba declared decisively. He threw up his arms like he was a magician doing a particularly impressive trick, or like he was a contestant on a game show with the answer to the prize-winning question, and cried: "Nii'tama!"

Daniel doubled over, laughing. He'd been waiting for that.

Kristine's grin reached her ears.

Hannah looked thoroughly appalled.

Kristine was sure that she would find the humor in it eventually, once she was convinced that he'd honestly meant nothing by it. Mokuba's scope of the world, like that of any boy his age, was only a touch wider than that of a goldfish. Caretaker? Guide? Protector? It could only mean one person.

That one person was standing nearby, and Kristine was sure that Seto had heard the exchange. She expected him to be rather proud or delighted at the notion that his little brother thought of him as God. It really was cute, in its own way. But the one thing she would have _never_ expected to see was exactly what she saw, written on his face like hieroglyphs:

Stark horror.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The title for this chapter is from the chorus of "God is for the Dead," from Ill Niño's 2010 album, "Dead New World."<strong>_

_** Kristine Hathaway was a social worker for the Domino Children's Home while Seto and Mokuba were living there. Now that Seto and Mokuba have risen through the ranks of society and have become influential enough to inspire change in the city, she's been promoted. She's now in charge of said Children's Home, and is known far and wide as "Big Kristine."**_

_** I know that Seto's time at the orphanage was apparently supposed to be a bad time for him; a time of restlessness and anger. Else why would he be so hell-bent to leave that he would stay with Gozaburo? However, I contend that it wasn't all bad. Not at all. Some of the flashbacks we see in the Noa storyline of the second series anime were downright pleasant.**_

_** Hence, this. Granted, it wasn't a particularly pleasant experience for Seto at the time, apparently, but I think he might look back on it now with some amount of satisfaction. His brother had seriously high expectations of him, still has them, and so far he's lived up to them.**_

_** That, in my book, is a victory.**_


	7. I Won't Give in To—

_**Seto has very few friends. If pressed, I would say the concept of friendship rather offends him. Loose ends and potential threats. All of them. His entire life has conditioned him to see an enemy in everyone, and the only person to have bypassed that stigma is Mokuba.**_

_** Regardless of which version of the story you're dealing with, second-series anime or Season Zero or manga, it cannot be denied that Mokuba is a different case than most. Even at his darkest, Seto put more time and effort into Mokuba than he did most everyone else. Granted, before the end of Death-T that attention was largely negative. Still, it makes the point.**_

_** Seto trusts no one.**_

_** Some years ago, I created somebody. A police officer with whom I figured Seto would share something of an understanding. Are they friends? Seto might not admit to it, but I believe that they are. This beat cop has since been promoted to detective, and since then Darren McKinley has been an important part of my work with this series.**_

_** As such, it was a given that he would show up here.**_

_** Say hello, won't you?**_

* * *

><p>"Have you ever considered going to church with us?"<p>

They might have passed for the ultimate odd couple; one was dressed in a $50,000 suit, the other in frayed jeans, hiking boots, a t-shirt, and a black sweater tied about his waist. Both had brown hair; the former's was meticulously sculpted, cut at the shoulder with sweeping bangs shadowing blazing blue eyes. The latter's shot out of his head in a magnitude of gelled spikes, leaving his own hazel eyes completely visible. He sported a well-kept goatee and a thin mustache, where his companion was obsessively clean-shaven.

The only way to spot the underlying connection between the pair was by watching the way they walked. They strode with purpose, with confidence, tall and proud and composed. Detective Darren Wilson McKinley had a pleasant sort of expression on his face; he nodded to passersby, waved and half-saluted and murmured, "Excuse me."

Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba looked like he was headed for a public execution, with an unreadable yet undeniably negative expression on his face. His mouth was a line where Darren's was a smile, his eyes shuttered where Darren's were wide open. Summer, Winter. Day, Night. Sunshine, Thunderstorm.  
>"I've not," said Seto, though there was a certain shift in his tone as compared to most. With most people, he would have been dismissive, biting, downright nasty. He spoke to Darren McKinley with an engaged, unbiased sort of tone. He spoke to this man like an equal.<p>

"I suppose you don't need to be told that my next question is why," Darren said. "You might be surprised. It gives a lot of people a chance to clear their minds. Relax. Prepare themselves for the week ahead." He did not speak of spirit, of community, and he took special care not to mention Our Father Who Art in Heaven.

"I don't need relaxation," Seto said, and _now _he sounded dismissive. "I _need _nine days in a week, each comprised of about thirty-two hours. If not for the fact that a prison sentence would strip away what limited time I have, I wouldn't be here right now. I was fully prepared to commit murder an hour ago."

Darren chuckled. He knew better than any—except perhaps Mokuba—that Seto had a distinctly sarcastic sense of humor, and any threats made in such a bored, exasperated tone were easily dismissible. It was when Seto looked like a statue that such declarations were cause for alarm.

Serious alarm.

They were walking together through one of Domino City's most celebrated parks. It was an odd ritual, something nobody would have expected an officer of the law and an infamous executive to be doing together...or at least not _this _officer, and _this _infamous executive, under any circumstances whatsoever.

The good detective wondered if that was part of the reason why Seto often chose to do it. He lived to defy expectations.

Hullender Field was a local hotspot, and the place was packed. People gasped and pointed as they saw him, but enough of them had seen Seto here often enough to know that approaching him was the precise opposite of a good idea. They'd learned to leave him be. That didn't stop the occasional straggler, but for the most part it left them both in peace.

"I've been to church services," Seto said, knowing that Darren was looking for further explanation, "and the clearest message they send is that we needn't suffer alone. We don't have to shoulder our burdens by ourselves. Give them over to God, and we will be happy."

Darren raised an eyebrow. "This is a problem."

Seto sneered. "Whenever have you known me to ask for help from anyone, or any_thing, _I can't trust?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>I have long believed that Seto Kaiba is a rather bitter atheist. My stance on the subject comes from a number of factors, and I won't mention them here for fear of turning it into a rant. Suffice it to say that he doesn't put much stock in the idea of faith. That doesn't mean, however, that he would refuse to associate with someone who <strong>_**did **_**believe, so long as they weren't the sort to try to convert him.**_

_** Darren is such a person. This is why I believe they work well together. Darren is a man of faith, devout and dedicated, but he does not belittle those who are not, particularly if they have a very specific stance on why. He's not offended by Seto's stance; I daresay no one is likely to understand that stance better.**_

_** I think this relationship is important for Seto.**_

_**See you Thursday, everybody.**_


	8. Livin' My Life, Livin' the Dream

_**It's nearing graduation season. I am graduating soon (I know, what a cliché, right?). That said, this felt appropriate. A few notes on my general chronology. Over the years, I have deviated some amount from canon in terms of the Kaibas' ages. I understand that the general consensus is that, at the beginning of the series Seto is 15 and Mokuba is 12. Some say 15 and 10.**_

_** However, I found that to be rather odd. One, if we take the Noa storyline seriously, Seto promised when Mokuba was 4 or 5 that he would be Mokuba's father from now on. And since I **_**love _that scene, I do. It's _**_**nice and mature, but I kind of doubt an 8-year-old would have been able to honestly do it. Seto did.**_

_** So what I figure is, Seto was around 8 or so when Mokuba was **_**born. **_**This makes more sense to me than if he were 3. This accomplishes a couple of things. One, it allows Seto to have gained the depth of maturity to make that kind of promise. 13 makes more sense to me than 8 for someone to swear to be a father. Still young, but hey. This is Seto. Two, it means Mokuba was about 7 during Duelist Kingdom, which kind of explains why his duel with Yami was so notably atrocious. A 12-year-old gamer would be far better at the game, even if he'd never played it before, than Mokuba was.**_

_** Anyway, all this is to say that when these scenes take place, Mokuba is 10, which makes Seto 18.**_

_** Read, and experience. It's all heartwarming and stuff.**_

* * *

><p>"Mister Kaiba, sir!"<p>

It wasn't quite right or fair to call what Seto was doing "ignoring." To ignore implied some modicum of understanding that something was happening worth ignoring. His face was entirely blank, completely neutral, and the man in the cheap suit may as well have been talking to a paperweight. Roland Ackerman, meanwhile, stood serenely behind his employer's desk, hands clasped behind his back, staring at nothing in particular and looking entirely uninterested in helping.

"Mister Kaiba!"

The man in the cheap suit, whose name was Christiansen, reached out a hand and clutched Seto's arm. Now Roland reacted, stepping forward and reaching for the pistol beneath his coat in the same fluid movement.

Seto held up an arm without looking back, and Roland's stance eased. He did not, however, remove his hand from the butt of his sidearm. Christiansen seemed not to have noticed this silent exchange. "Mister Kaiba, what are you _doing? _The conference is in twenty minutes! What do you mean, you're _leaving?"_

"I believe…" Seto murmured with complete calm, "…that I informed you that 2 PM today would _not _be open. I believe I asked you to reschedule."

"And I told you! Mister Donalds refused! He said this is the only time he can speak to us this _month!"_

Seto turned slowly, and Roland turned his eyes away, hiding a bemused smile behind his hand as he faked clearing his throat. Christiansen stared up at his employer, who was two inches taller than he was. "How inconvenient for Donalds," he said, "that I did not say 2 PM today would not be open unless it conflicted with _his_ schedule. I said that it would _not be open. _Period."

He turned again.

"Mister Kaiba!" Christiansen bleated. "Whatever you have scheduled will have to wait! This is the deal of the _century, _sir! We _have _to—"

"No," Seto said.

He was out the door before Christiansen could sputter out a response. He whirled on Roland Ackerman, who was looking at him innocently. His hand had left his weapon, and he now had both stuffed into the pockets of his pinstriped slacks, looking halfway between exasperated and amused.

"Mister Ackerman, didn't you _tell _him that Mister Donalds—"

"If _I _were _his _employer, then I would _tell _him," Roland cut in. "Master Kaiba does what he wants."

"And it will be the death of this company!" Christiansen cried. "Doesn't he understand that we're a fledgling in a field of vultures? If we aren't careful, they're all going to swallow us whole! With Johan Donalds at our backs, we'd be near invincible! We _can't _make him into an enemy!"

"Then I would suggest you do your best to convince him that we are _not _an enemy," Roland said simply. "Master Kaiba does not play games any more than Johan Donalds does. He deals with those who understand him, and he deals with those he deems worthy of the privilege. It is true that D&E Studios would be a worthy asset to the company, but if he is unwilling to meet with us due to a scheduling conflict, then Master Kaiba is hardly interested in dealing with him."

"I already _told_ him I'd convince Mister Kaiba to be on call!"

Roland smirked. "You shouldn't have done that."

Christiansen's eyes were bulging out of his head. "We _have_ to convince Mister Kaiba!"

"We won't," said Roland.

"That's not good enough! This is once-in-a-lifetime!"

Roland's eyebrows raised. "So is an elementary school graduation."

A beat of stunned silence.

"…_That's _what he's doing?" Christiansen asked incredulously. "Attending the vice-president's _elementary school graduation? _Oh, for the love of—it's not like he's graduating _high school! _Elementary school isn't an _achievement!_ I'm sorry, but I'm bringing him back. Mokuba will just have to understand that Mister Kaiba has more important things to be doing than to attend every little…"

He trailed off suddenly, going pale.

Roland Ackerman had removed his glasses, and his coal-black eyes were murderous.

"…You need to stop talking now."

* * *

><p>The auditorium was packed with folding chairs, on which scores of excited parents were seated, disposable cameras and camcorders in hand as they chattered endlessly and pointed and compared notes and laughed and checked for batteries.<p>

A handful of people were standing against the far wall, and two in particular were dressed in rather expensive-looking suits. One sported greying black hair and a well-groomed beard, prominent laugh lines spider-webbing out from the corners of his bright hazel eyes. The other was clean-shaven with chestnut brown hair and blue eyes blazing out from beneath windswept bangs. They stood beside each other, and there was a certain feeling of silent camaraderie between them.

Johan Donalds murmured under his breath, "So _this _was what you were so hell-bent on doing that you blew me off. Small world."

Seto Kaiba didn't answer at once. Eventually, he said, "I refuse to be a cliché."

"…I had no intention of being in a conference this afternoon," Donalds admitted, chuckling as he glanced at the watch on his left wrist. "I wanted to see what you would do, if I told your people that I had no time outside of it."

Seto smirked. "Well played."

"I'm impressed," Donalds said. "It's been a long time since someone's told me, 'Oh, well, I'm busy, goodbye.' It's rather refreshing, actually." He glanced at Seto, who was still wearing his trademark smirk. "Not to bring work into this occasion. Lord knows Ellie would have my hide. But…I think there's a future in this partnership. We'll have to talk sometime next week."

Seto gave a curt nod.

"My granddaughter," Donalds murmured, gesturing vaguely, "there with the red pigtails and the star on her cheek. Which one's yours?"

Seto looked out at the stage where the 2006 Graduating Class of Oakwood Elementary School stood in their caps and gowns, waving and laughing and calling out to their families, basking in the afterglow of the ceremony, and his smirk shifted into a grin of such fierce, savage pride that it bordered on a grimace of pain.

And he said, cobalt eyes shimmering with tears he didn't know were there, "…He's the only one wearing a tie."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Say it with me now: D'awwww.<strong>_

_** It's adorable. You know it, I know it, the American people know it. Because you know the reason Mokuba is wearing that tie (and it's a real tie, not a clip-on; get your mind out of the…gutter…? Anyway) is because he wants to be Just Like Niisama. Say what you want about their general philosophies and how Mokuba wouldn't want to be stoic and generally miserable like his brother; that much is true. But where a metric ton of the more important things are concerned, I don't think I'm out of order to say that Mokuba deeply desires to emulate Seto's actions.**_

_** Including his sense of fashion. Yes, laugh at the trench coats. They're woven of awesome and that's the end of it. Your argument is invalid. Besides, he wears suits now. Awesome suits. Yes, that's a brand now. Hush.**_

_** Also, Christiansen's argument about elementary school graduation isn't just something I threw out there to make him into a jerk; I've heard it espoused before. I just don't figure Seto would give it any amount of validity, considering.**_

_**Hope you liked this one as much as I do.**_

_** See you this weekend, party peoples.**_

_** Take care.**_


	9. And I Have No Privacy

_**Sorry about the delay on today's chapter. I ran out of buffer, so I had to write this one today. That is to say, this is as organic as it gets. This is an idea that has mulled about in my head for a while now and I finally worked it into a scene. I decided to take a common theory and turn it on its head.**_

_** This was the result.**_

* * *

><p>When his phone rang, Mokuba didn't even give him the chance to <em>look <em>at it.

He'd been lying on the daybed in one corner of his private bedchamber, staring up at the ceiling and trying to forget everything else he might be doing. Even when he'd tried to get up and find a book to read, Mokuba had vetoed the motion, saying that the whole idea was to _rest _when you were sick, and he knew good and well that Niisama didn't read like normal people. When Seto read, he analyzed and scrutinized and took notes and…

"You're sick, Niisama," Mokuba had said that morning. "And when I'm sick, you always tell me I need to lay down and rest. So that's what _you're _going to do."

So, Mokuba answered his phone. "Kaiba," he said, in a business-like tone that Seto heard only rarely—although he'd been hearing a _lot _of it today, now that he thought about it. Mokuba waited a moment. "No, I'm sorry, he's unavailable right now. I can take down your name, number, and a message for him. I'm sorry, sir, but I don't believe that's any of your concern. No. No, I won't. Goodbye, sir." And he hung up.

"Short message," Seto murmured thoughtfully.

"He didn't want to talk to me," Mokuba said. "Said I should find you."

"It might have been important," Seto said, "considering he knew my private number."

"If it was important enough to need immediate attention," Mokuba said, with the air of someone repeating something he'd heard any number of times, "he would have known what to do and done it already."

Seto couldn't help but smirk. "…My own doctrine recited back at me. Touché."

The phone rang again.

Mokuba picked it up and looked at it. He groaned. "Kaiba," he said, in the same light, polite tone he'd used the first time. "No, sir. He's _unavailable. _If you understand that, then kindly stop calling this number. Goodbye."

"The next time he calls, I'll speak to him," Seto said.

"No, you won't," Mokuba said sharply. "That'd make me look like a joke. I'll handle it."

Seto blinked. Sat up and looked back at his brother. "…You still _look _eleven. Since when do you take that tone with me?" Mokuba could tell that his brother wasn't serious, and so he only gave a toothy grin and tilted his head.

The phone rang again.

"…Carry on, then, Kaiba-fukushachou," Seto said, waving his hand and going back to staring at the ceiling.

"Kaiba," Mokuba said, and he was all business now, stern and unwavering. He waited a moment, then snapped, "What's your name? Ulmer? No, I'm afraid _you're _going to be listening to _me, _Mister Ulmer. I have tried to be polite, but you don't want to listen. I don't care. Who am—do you think the president hands his private phone to random kids on the street? I'm Mokuba Kaiba, your _vice-president. _Yeah, yeah, you do that." He was silent for almost a full minute before saying, "…Hi, Hank. Yeah. Mokuba. Niisama's sick today. Mm-hm. I don't know _how _he got this number, but could you let Roland know we're going to want to get a new one? I don't want my brother having to talk to this moron. Get rid of him, too, huh? Thanks. Okay. Yeah, that sounds good. No, I don't think you'll have to worry. I won't be able to keep him in bed longer than today. Okay. Take care, Hank. Bye."

"Apparently we need to tighten up our hiring standards," Seto muttered.

"Yeah, little bit," Mokuba said. Seto didn't hear him put his phone back onto the end-table, and he figured the black-haired boy had put it into his own pocket. He couldn't hide a grin. "Want some tea, Niisama? Connolly said we got some new stuff in."

"…Yes."

"'Kay."

Mokuba left the room.

Seto realized as he continued to watch his ceiling that, for all his complaints of idleness, he felt better. He settled onto the daybed, found that his grin wasn't sliding off his face like it usually did whenever Mokuba left the room, and when his brother came back in with a tray holding a kettle of steaming tea, a cup, and a tiny tray of little butter cookies—Seto wasn't one for sweets, but the gesture was nice—he thought that he could get used to this.

* * *

><p><em><strong>It's a common idea for Mokuba to be sick, and for Seto to take care of him; it's probably not that much less common for Seto to be sick, and for Mokuba to take care of him. But it's the how in this equation that I liked. He's not having to take Seto's temperature and wipe his forehead with a cool towel or…feed him soup.<strong>_

_** Rather, he has to make sure that nobody bothers Seto, and that Seto isn't tempted to bother anybody else. Apparently he's not allowed to read, either. And yes, I know, KaibaCorp seems to be full of idiots, the way I write them. It's balanced out by people like Roland and…whoever Hank is. Mokuba seems to like him, and that's what matters, right?**_

_** See you Tuesday, folks.**_


	10. I Got 200 Seconds

_**I have another chapter worked out for Thursday, and it's a little…less than happy. I know, shocker. But I thought I'd put this one up first, as it's a bit happier.**_

_** Not much to say about it except: have fun.**_

* * *

><p>He sat idly in the conference room with his hands in his lap. His eyes opened slowly, like he was blinking in slow motion, and he stole a glance at his brother. Seto's cobalt glare was just as intense and alert as it always was, but Mokuba—who had studied that angular face for so many years—could tell that the elder Kaiba was just as bored out of his mind as he was.<p>

"So you see," the presenter was saying, trying to hide his obvious offense at the fact that the two people he most desperately needed to impress seemed entirely uninterested in what he was saying, "the current model just won't match up to current technology within a handful of years. We're in very real danger of falling behind. My proposal will bring us back onto the forefront of gaming technology."

"At nearly eight-hundred dollars per unit," Mokuba put in, any traces of boredom or fatigue suddenly gone from his voice. _"Magic & Wizards _is still a kids' game. That's the target, isn't it? How can we justify a price tag like that?"

The answer consisted primarily of business jargon that went straight over the black-haired boy's head, but Seto clearly understood because he cut in with quick, curt questions until it finally came down to the bare bones of the situation.

"Sir, the Duel Disk is becoming archaic."

"Yet it remains this company's flagship product."

"It won't stay that way for long if we don't—"

"Be that as it may, the vice-president is right. To sell at such an inflated price is the only way we could make a profit on this proposal, and our target demographic cannot be expected to afford it."

It was a testament to how much his brother had grown up in the past five years—as far as Mokuba was concerned—that Seto hadn't taken offense to the idea that his once-favored pastime was a "kids' game." Then again, he likely agreed with the sentiment now; he hadn't picked up his deck in months.

"It's a solid design," Seto admitted, leaning forward in his chair, "but we'll definitely have to do something about the cost. Send the proposal to Olivia in Development. Get fresh eyes to look into it."

George LaMont grinned like a boy of nine and bowed hurriedly. "Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir!"

Mokuba glanced down at the watch he was wearing on his left hand as LaMont all but skipped out of the room. Seto must have been in a good mood, he thought idly, because he seemed amused, rather than disgusted, by it. He was just about to smile when he finally took in the time that was blinking at him from the face of his watch.

11:56 AM.

"Niisama!" Mokuba blurted out, looking suddenly terrified. "My field trip!"

Seto raised an eyebrow, then his gaze slid over to the face of his cellular phone. Seto didn't bat an eyelash. He said, "Let's get moving," as he rose smoothly to his feet. Mokuba stared at him, not comprehending. "C'mon, kid, if you don't want to miss the bus, we have to move _now."_

"Niisama, we have _four minutes!"_

Seto simply smirked. "Then let's get to it."

And he strode from the room, leaving Mokuba to catch up.

* * *

><p>The drive from the regional headquarters of the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation to the parking lot of East Rivers Middle School was, for lack of a more sophisticated term, terrifying. Mokuba barely had enough time to buckle in his seatbelt before his brother turned his Veyron into a lightning bolt, flying down the streets of Domino City and breaking about sixteen traffic laws in the process.<p>

Seto was a careful driver. He was careful in just about everything he did, in fact, because he was a perfectionist. Perfectionists only take risks when the potential benefits outweigh the potential consequences, he often told his brother. But the closest thing to which Mokuba could compare this particular ride on this particular morning was a roller coaster he'd ridden once on his eighth birthday.

By the time they'd gotten into the car, it was 11:57, and Mokuba had the absurd thought that it would be 11:55 by the time they made it to the bus. "Don't worry," Seto had assured him that morning, when Mokuba had expressed concern about missing his science class's trip to St. Augustine's Museum, which he'd been anticipating for almost a month now.

"Mister Allensworth used to work there when it first opened," Mokuba had said. "He's going to give us a tour."

"I'll get you there," Seto had replied, and he evidently was determined to do it. Mokuba had _also _been looking forward to the bus ride, during which he and Connor planned to hold a _Magic & Wizards _tournament with a group of fellow students.

Seto's Veyron swerved into the lot just as 11:59 shifted into 12:00. Mokuba grabbed his bag and threw open the door as soon as the vehicle stopped moving, forgetting in his haste to undo his seatbelt. Seto left to check with the bus driver, who told him that they were running ten to fifteen minutes late.

Mokuba threw his arms around Seto's waist as he came back. "I don't know how you did that, and I hope you never do it again, but you're the best brother _ever!"_

Seto smiled and tousled his sibling's hair. "I know."

* * *

><p><em><strong>This chapter was almost entirely inspired by the song from which I found the title, which is "Richman," from 3OH3!'s 2008 album "Want." The song itself really doesn't fit anything in this chapter, but that one part in the chorus, "I got 200 seconds and I'm ready to go," struck me as having potential.<strong>_

_** This was also partially spurred by my desire to understand a bit more of what role Mokuba plays in his brother's company. I've never really given him a hand in the business, because…well, I don't know how it works. I work in a congressman's office, not a corporate juggernaut, so my knowledge is limited.**_

_** In any case, I think this one turned out rather nice, and offsets the rather more serious mood of the next section. Don't worry, it's not a complete downer. Still, it's a tad angsty.**_

_** You'll see on Thursday.**_

_** Take care 'til then.**_


	11. Every Time I Fall Down

_**I'm taking a Group Therapy course as one of my final classes, and in researching for a project, I came across a particular website, and a particular topic of discussion, that made me think of the Kaibas. To be sure that I could properly focus, I wrote this out before I got too distracted.**_

* * *

><p>"'…a pattern of failing to provide for a child's basic needs.' Well, <em>that's <em>obvious."

"The point isn't to belittle the definition," Yugi said, leveling a reproving look at Tristan. "The point is to know it. And just because you know the _definition_ doesn't mean you're going to be able to ace this test. You and Joey have the same problem; you think common sense is all that's called for in a test. You need specifics. Now…what are the _warning signs _of neglect?"

Tristan grumbled under his breath and looked back to his book. "Ah…shit. Where's my p—ah. There it is. Okay. So…uh…'Older children might not show outward signs of neglect, becoming used to presenting a competent face to the outside world, and even taking on the role of the parent.' _That's _not…" He trailed off, and looked up.

Yugi followed his gaze. Mokuba, who had been putting together a dueling deck in one corner of the shop, had stopped moving. He was staring at the table without seeing it, various cards in his hands.

"…What are the _other_ topics on this test?" Yugi asked.

"Uh…emotional. Constant belittling, shaming, humiliating; negative comparisons to others; threatening or bullying…ignoring or rejecting a child as punishment…limited physical contact…telling a child he is 'worthless' or 'a mistake.'"

With each bullet point, Mokuba flinched. His eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched.

"…Physical. 'Many physically abusive parents and caregivers insist that their actions are simply forms of discipline; ways to make children learn to behave.'"

Mokuba gave a derisive scoff.

"Uh…Mokuba?" Yugi said, sounding almost frightened. "Are you…feeling okay?"

"Been better," Mokuba muttered. He looked up at them both. "What class are you studying for?"

"Uh…C-Dev," Tristan said. At Mokuba's blank look, he amended, "Child development. Uh…hey, Mokuba. There's no real way to ask this without sounding like a dick, so I'll just do it: are you—"

The boy's grey-violent eyes snapped wide, and he suddenly looked like he wanted to tear Tristan's throat out. "What are you, _stupid? _Don't even finish that question. I know you guys get off on insulting my brother when he's not around, but don't you _dare _start thinking he…that he would…!" He seemed to be choking on his own words, sputtering with indignant fury.

"Okay, okay," Tristan held up his hands in surrender. "Sorry. Forget I said anything. Just…checking. Jesus, kid, don't go burning us at the stake just yet, it's just…well, since we started on this subject, you've been…well…"

Mokuba visibly calmed. "I…sorry, guys. I just…it just bothers me. To hear you talk about that stuff like it's some kind of checklist, like it's…clinical or something. Excuse me, sir, but before we can admit you, we have to go over a little checklist to make sure we can help you. Question one: has anyone _beaten you savagely _in the past month?"

And just like that, dark, brutal anger visited his face again.

Tristan looked stunned, but Yugi actually chuckled. "I know, huh?" He lifted the study guide with one hand. "Doesn't really do it justice, does it? They talk about fear, they talk about how kids might be unwilling to talk to authority figures, but…they don't mention the way your stomach ties itself into knots and wants to burst right out of your body because you know you've got school in the morning and you've missed too many days already this quarter. It doesn't go into how you…don't know how you're going to make it home because unfortunately you're _not _a ninja, and jumping from roof to roof is about as physically possible as walking up the walls."

Mokuba blinked, looking surprised.

Tristan suddenly looked guilty. He shut his book. "Ah, _fuck," _he muttered. "Yugi, you…goddamn it, I'm an idiot. I'm sorry, man, I'll…I'll just go home and study. No need to bring you guys into this. _Shit, _I'm stupid."

But Yugi was still smiling. "I'm over it, Tristan. Really. You know something Yami told me that helped? When he was first starting to actually talk to me, he said, 'No child is born knowing how to curl his hand into a fist, and no child intuitively knows how to use that fist as a weapon against his brothers. In fact, true strength and true nobility come from that first child who _has_ been taught these things, and learns to use them to defend, rather than attack.'"

"…Cute," came a new voice from the stairs; Joey Wheeler had his hands in his pockets and a dark look on his face. "Noble and honorable and all that shit. But it's a bunch of crap. Best thing us assholes can do for ourselves is admit we're assholes. There's no nobility in anything I've ever done with my fists."

"The nobility doesn't come from fighting back," Mokuba murmured softly, and he didn't look like he was there anymore. He looked like he was watching something far away. "The nobility…the dignity…comes from standing back up. From getting knocked down and climbing back onto your feet. From…from looking at the person attacking you and…and…just standing."

Joey, Yugi, and Tristan all noticed a moment later that Mokuba had abandoned his cards.

He was clutching his locket.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The information from Tristan's textbook is actually lifted from:<strong>_

_**www(dot)helpguide(dot)org/mental/child_abuse_physical_emotional_sexual_neglect(dot)htm.**_

_**To my estimation, Seto was a victim of every type of abuse under the sun save sexual. I know some people think it's possible or even likely that he was molested, but I have a hard time with the theory. I won't go into why. Those of you who have read "Back from the Dead" know that I don't shy away from the topic, but I just don't see it happening to Seto.**_

_** But physical abuse, emotional abuse, and neglect? He had it in spades. He tried to hide it from his brother, but Mokuba knows. He knows far more than Seto thinks he does, but Mokuba doesn't let him know because it wouldn't be fair to him. Seto thinks he's done well in hiding the worst of his past. It just wouldn't do to prove that he hasn't. There's no point. Mokuba doesn't hero-worship his brother because he doesn't know any better; he does it because he's one of the select few who know the truth. **_

_**In another project that never really went anywhere, I said, "[Gozaburo] was the sort of man you love when you don't know any better. He was a master. He's the sort of guy who could convince you he beat the wall at tennis...[Seto] is the sort of man you **_**hate**_** when you don't know any better. He wouldn't **_**convince**_** you he beat the wall at tennis; he'd play the **_**hell**_** out of that wall until he**_** did."**

_**That, I think, sums it up.**_

_** While the entire song doesn't fit Seto, certain sections do. Such as: "…and he fights so you won't ignore him, 'cuz that's his biggest fear. And he cries, but you'll rarely see him do it. He loves, but he's scared to use it…He's so much more than worthless; he needs to find the surface, because he's starting to get nervous."**_

_** Told you, a touch angsty this time around. 'Cuz that's what happens when you talk about Seto. But, he seems to have done well enough for himself, and Mokuba will keep him balanced, won't he?**_

_** So, see you all this weekend.**_

_** Take care.**_


	12. No Place I'd Rather Be

_**Firstly, let me apologize both for the lateness of this chapter, and for missing Saturday. A family emergency had taken over the house for a solid week, and I can only say that I hope I may be forgiven. This piece is actually quite a bit longer than the others so far, and I also hope that that helps to make up for the missed update.**_

_** This is set in the past, not long after Mokuba first met the gang. Typically in my work, Seto and the others get along halfway reasonably well (that is to say, they don't attempt to murder each other anymore), and this chapter attempts to shed some light on how they used to deal with each other, back when Seto was still in his mid-teens.**_

_** Keep an eye out for another Kaiba brothers piece that I wrote over the weekend, which I've called "Fall from Grace, Rise to Glory." It's different from most of what I've written about them, but the major themes of this piece are also present there.**_

_** As always, enjoy.**_

* * *

><p>"Wheeler. Taylor."<p>

They stopped dead in their tracks, looking like a gunshot had just gone off. Joey Wheeler turned first, swiping his blond hair away from his face as if to clear his vision and make sure he was seeing correctly. Tristan Taylor glanced over his shoulder.

"Kaiba," Joey replied scathingly, crossing his arms.

"Stupid move," Seto replied blandly. "If I _were _looking for a fight, as you seem to think, you both would be pathetically easy targets right now. One with his arms crossed, the other with his back turned. If you're going to be antagonistic, at least do it properly. Don't expect me to give you weapons, though. You'll have to find those yourselves."

Joey lowered his arms and clenched them into fists. "You're such a _dick_, you know that?"

"So I've been told. I've also been called a 'prick' on occasion, which I believe has a similar meaning."

Tristan turned to face him. "...It's so clear you _give _a shit, too."

"I've been trying sohard to impress you," Seto replied.

"What the fuck do you want?" Joey demanded.

Seto sighed again, long-suffering, as if he were about to do something he wanted nothing less in the world to do. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and glanced up at the sky for a moment, perhaps praying to a god in which he didn't believe for patience, or looking around for a helicopter to come evacuate him out of this entire situation. Finding neither _deus _nor _machina, _he turned his eyes back to the pair in front of him.

"I have a request to make of you both."

Joey barked a laugh. "Oh, _really? _Well, ya sure's hell got off to a _damn_ good start!"

"I was never under the impression that you would be willing to perform, nor even listen to, this request voluntarily," Seto snapped. "I am prepared to compensate you. This is not a favor; it's a job. Now, will you listen?"

"Shut _up_, Joe," Tristan hissed as Joey made to reply again. "I need as much money as I can get my damn hands on right now. What's this job, Kaiba? And why're you asking _us?"_

"I have a convention to attend this coming weekend," Seto said. "I am expected to make a presentation, as well as present a trophy to the winner of a _Magic & Wizards _tournament being planned for the event. Under normal circumstances, Mokuba would come with me. However, the event was postponed. Mokuba's two-week spring vacation has ended already, and he cannot afford to miss this coming Monday."

Joey sneered. "That's pretty fucked, Kaiba. Not lettin' the kid go to a convention 'cuz it's a _school _day."

"Unlike _certain_ individuals I could name offhand," Seto replied waspishly, "Mokuba takes his education seriously, and thus it was _his _decision to stay home in order not to miss a quiz, not mine. I respect his decision, and intend to honor it."

"But…?" Tristan said, gesturing for him to continue.

"Mokuba has made plans to stay with Mutou for the time being," Seto couldn't quite hide the twitch of displeasure-bordering-on-hatred that crossed his face, "and while I do not deny that he means well, I also do not intend to leave my brother undefended while I attend to this…business. I did it once, and it earned him a stay in a dungeon cell. Because evidently the proper answer to child abduction is a challenge to _duel."_

Joey scowled. "Yeah, and where the hell were _you? _Least Yugi _did _somethin'. Yugi frickin' _tried—"_

"If _trying _were good enough, we wouldn't be having this discussion!" Seto snarled. "Don't speak to me about _trying. _What do you want to hear from me? What apology do I owe to _you? _What is it, precisely, that I have done to you? Nothing you did not turn right back upon me. Did your mother not teach you the rule about what two wrongs do _not _make?"

"You just don't know when to shut your _fuckin' _mouth, do you?"

"A _fascinating _question coming from _you!"_

"Oh, for the love of _God, _would you two get a room?" Tristan interjected. "Jesus H. Christ on a goddamn tricycle, you can't go fifteen seconds without biting each other's heads off. Here's an idea, Joey, how 'bout _you _shut _your _mouth before the goddamn _billionaire _decides he doesn't wanna pay us?"

"I don't _want_ his fucking—"

"Yeah, well, _I _do. I gotta pay rent, y'know, and last I heard, _you _had a problem with your cell phone bill. Now, you wanna _work _for it, or ask your mom? How many millions of people don't like their boss? We don't have to convert to fuckin' Kaiba-ism, here, so get the damn stick outta your ass for a minute."

He turned to Seto. "Word to the wise, Kaiba? I get that we screwed up with Mokuba out at Duelist Kingdom, a'right? And I'm not gonna tell you that you're not right to be pissed for it. Just a little kid, right? Oughtta look out for 'im. But, uh…if you want Joey to do somethin' for ya, might be a good idea _not_ to insult him first. Just a thought."

Seto opened his mouth to speak, then forcibly stopped himself. He let out a slow, haggard breath as his right hand inched toward the necklace they knew he wore under his shirt; the necklace with the picture of Mokuba in it. Joey visibly calmed, and on a glance at Tristan he lowered his head.

"…A'right," the blond said, sounding defeated. "What's this job you want us in on?"

"While I am gone, and Mokuba is staying with…Yugi," Kaiba replied, looking as if it were physically painful to speak, "…I would ask that you two…look out for him. As I've said, Yugi means well, I'm sure, and I know that he considers Mokuba a friend. For that, I am grateful. But he does not have proper training in…actual defense. I have reason to believe that you do. Am I wrong in this?"

Joey looked honestly surprised. "I…uh…no, I guess. We, uh…y'know, been around the block."

"Not, like, _professionally_ trained or anything," Tristan said, "but we know how to handle things. So…you're asking…_us_…to watch out for your li'l brother. Make sure he's okay while you're off giving speeches or whatever."

Seto nodded. "Yes."

Tristan actually smiled. "I can swing that."

Joey watched the brunette for a moment, gauging him. "…Yeah. Sure. Count me in."

Seto nodded. "Thank you."

He turned and walked away without another word.

* * *

><p>"Okay, um...so the forest is pretty dark, it's getting close to nighttime, and, uh...you're pretty sure there's nobody following you."<p>

Mokuba hadn't known what to think when Yugi brought up the idea of tabletop roleplaying, but he had to admit that it was going pretty well. Yugi had clearly thought through his adventure; he had everything in order, and he was a pretty good storyteller when you got right down to it. Nonetheless, he was nervous, and it showed.

"I'm going to roll perception to make sure," Mokuba said.

"Okay," said Yugi.

He tossed the die onto the table. "Sixteen, plus four. Twenty."

"Okay." Yugi glanced down at a sheet of paper. "You don't notice anything out of place at first. Just some animals going about their business. You _do _see a fox after a while, and it makes eye contact with you. It's pretty bold, and you think there's something a little off."

"Arcana," Tristan said. "I'm gonna see if it's been enchanted by somebody."

"Go for it."

"...Four."

Yugi grinned. "Okay, uh...yeah, you're pretty sure that's a fox, all right."

"I'm gonna eat it."

Mokuba smiled. He could tell that Joey, Tristan, and Téa were all new to the game. They didn't quite understand the way things worked, they were constantly checking and re-checking their character sheets and reference books, but he could also tell that the guys, at least, were getting into the spirit of things. Téa, on the other hand, was doing her level best to hide the fact that she was bored out of her mind, and failing rather spectacularly.

Mokuba didn't know Téa Gardner very well, but he knew bored. It was a universal expression, and it was one he had seen _way _too many times to miss now. Whenever Yugi looked over at her, she smiled just a bit _too _enthusiastically. There was a touch of embarrassment on Yugi's face whenever he saw one of those smiles, and the black-haired boy had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Something was amiss, they both knew it, and they were both pretending like they didn't.

He could already picture Seto sending one of his, "Are you serious?" looks at Téa, until she finally grew uncomfortable enough that she demanded to know what his problem was. And he could see Seto leaning back in his chair, raising an incredulous eyebrow, and saying, "If you're not interested, leave the table. Don't insult the rest of the group by staying if you don't want to play."

Mokuba took in a deep breath and remained silent. He loved his brother, admired and respected him, even agreed with him on this particular point, but he knew better than anyone else that Seto took no stock in social niceties, and he knew that Seto's tactic wouldn't do him any good here. Maybe they _were_ idiots, like Seto said, but Mokuba found that he liked them. He liked them just fine. He didn't really want to piss them off on his first night alone with them..

"Everybody roll initiative," Yugi was saying, "but don't tell me your numbers yet. I'm just going to...set this up, here..." He took a pen and started scratching on a grid. Mokuba picked up a die and rolled, and wondered what his brother was doing right now. "This is going to take a bit, so...take it easy for just a...minute, here..."

Mokuba checked the digital watch on his left wrist. It was almost eight-thirty. Seto was probably just getting to his hotel room for a night of...whatever it was that Seto did at night. Mokuba had never been sure what his insomniac sibling did until two in the morning every night, considering that the majority of his day had already been spent working. He felt a twinge of guilt for sitting here playing a game. He should have gone with Seto. He should be in that hotel room, convincing his brother to actually get some sleep for once and not pull the same 82-hour marathon stunt as last year; Seto had been so tired by the end of it that he'd actually forgotten how to drive, and was half-convinced that the proper solution was to walk home. Mokuba had asked him how long that would take, considering the twelve hours it had taken them to get there _with _a car.

Seto had stopped, looked up at the sky for a moment, and told his brother that if he kept up a brisk enough pace, he estimated that he could be back at the Kaiba Estate in about four days. When Mokuba told his brother that he didn't think he'd be able to walk that long (he didn't mention that _Seto _wouldn't be able to walk that long; he knew better), Seto had simply shrugged and said, "I'll carry you," in such a slurred, incoherent voice that it sounded like another language.

"Mokuba," Yugi said, and the black-haired boy flinched.

"Huh?"

"Initiative. What did you roll?"

Mokuba found that he didn't remember. He picked up the die again and rolled it onto the table. "Um...nineteen."

"All right. Anybody beat a nineteen?" Everyone shook their heads. "Okay," Yugi said, clapping his hands together again. "Let's get started. Top of the round. Mokuba, you're up."

Mokuba regained enough focus to realize that Yugi had set up a combat encounter. He scanned the grid on the table, and forced his memory to cooperate. After a few seconds that he attempted to mask as simple strategy, he said, "I'll use Divine Challenge on this guy right here, then Enfeebling Strike."

"Cool. Go for it."

Mokuba rolled, inwardly smiling; Yugi hadn't noticed _his _lack of attention. He picked up a die and rolled. "Uh...that's a...twenty-two."

"Versus AC?"

"Yeah."

"That hits. Roll damage."

"...Twelve."

Yugi nodded. "Okay. So you hold out your hand, and it kind of glows for a second, and a flash of light explodes in the first direwolf's face. You lift your hammer, and it's almost...sparkling in the aftermath, and _boom! _Down it goes on the wolf's flank. But it doesn't yelp. It just stands up again. Doesn't shake off the attack, or growl, or howl, or show its teeth. It's just staring at you."

"Oh, _that's _good news," Tristan said.

"As you look at the wolf, you notice out of the corner of your eye that the others aren't moving. They're _all _staring at you now. And while you adjust your grip on your hammer, they..._smile _at you. And you don't mistake it for a growl, either. None of them are making a sound. They're actually smiling."

Mokuba frowned. "Creepy."

"The one you hit takes a step or two forward. Slow, stiff, not like it's going to attack. The smile is still there. It keeps looking you straight in the eye, and you suddenly hear this voice. Like, echoing in your head. At first you don't know what it means, you can't understand anything. It's just gibberish. But after a few seconds or so, you recognize one word: _'dragonbrother.'"_

Joey half-snorted, half-coughed.

Yugi sent an exasperated look the blond's way. "Before you say _anything, _I'd remind you that he's a follower of Bahamut. You know, the _dragon god _of justice?"

"I didn't say nothin'."

"Uh-huh. I'm watching you."

"Dragonbrother," Mokuba repeated, unable to completely hide the smile coming to his face as he tested the new title. He cleared his throat and put himself into Paladin Mode, which Tristan had described as, "Kaiba with a cross ("up his ass," Joey had added under his breath)." Mokuba said, in as deep a voice as he could manage: "Who addresses me so?"

"We do," Yugi replied. "We who stand free beneath the leaves, we who stand strong against the wind of storms."

"These aren't natural wolves," Mokuba said. "These are agents. Why do you block our path? Who do you serve, that would keep us from moving forward?"

"Uh...who you talking to?" Tristan asked.

"Why aren't they attacking us?" Joey added.

"Maybe we should find another way?" Téa put in, trying desperately to be a part of the game. She still didn't sound very enthusiastic. "I'm not sure we should be fighting these wolves."

"We test you, dragonbrother," Yugi said. "Come forward with your followers, and we who stand strong will know your heart and your blood. If you are as we who are wise like the earth believe, then we who speak as the godsmouth shall answer your questions."

"Where'd you come up with this?" Joey wondered.

Yugi shrugged. "Kind of just...made it up. I don't know."

"Just to be clear," Tristan put in, "we _don't _hear this, right? This is all in Mokuba's head, right?"

"Yes. Only Althor can hear the voices. All right, so...this one here will take a bite at Tirivan—om, nom, nom—with a...twenty-seven versus AC."

"I dodge," Tristan said.

"Uh-huh. Take...five points of damage."

"Ow."

Mokuba jumped in his seat and quickly retrieved his phone from his pocket, which had begun to vibrate. Yugi raised an eyebrow. "Your brother?" he asked, but the black-haired boy sighed and shook his head, disappointed.

"Some 800 number," he said. He answered the call anyway, just in case, but it didn't take six seconds before he hung up and put the device back into his pocket. "No, I do _not _want a free security system," he muttered.

"Of course not," Yugi said. "You have no need for such things, dragonbrother. You are your own security system."

Mokuba grinned. "Yeah. That's it."

"All right, so...Joey. You next. What does Ulogg do?"

"Uh...let's go with blunt force trauma."

"You can't. You don't even know what that means."

"Hey! Ulogg ain't stupid! He's just alternately intellectual."

"Mm-hm. That's why his name is Ulogg, right? You're an ogre, Joey. Embrace it."

"Ugh."

Mokuba smiled. "That's the spirit!"

"Oh-ho, rich boy thinks he's funny now. All right, _dragonbrother. _Pay attention. This is how we roll in the mountains. I'm gonna Reaping Strike this mother in the face."

"Go."

Joey rolled. "...Goddamn it. Six on AC."

"Yeah, no."

"No, wait. Forgot my strength. Eleven."

"Yeah, no."

The blond leaned back and pouted. "Flag on the field. Damn wolves're cheating. Can I use my action point 'n try again?"

"...Yeah, no."

"Oh, _come on! _Okay, _seventeen_ on AC!"

"Miss."

"Mother_fucker!"_

Mokuba smiled. "Maybe you shouldn't mock my god," he offered.

"Your god's a dick. I bet these guys're workin' for Bahamut, and they got super-anti-ogre armor or somethin'. Oi! Wolves! You got somethin' against ogres?"

Yugi raised an eyebrow. "Yes."

"Racists."

"They have their reasons."

"Yeah, I just bet they do. All right, I got nothin'. Who's up next?"

"That'd be this wolf here. He's going to bite your face. Ooh. Not good. Nat twenty. Ulogg takes a maximum of...fifteen points of damage."

"Dod-gam futher-mucking bun of a sitch."

"...What?"

"Hey, Ulogg ain't too bright, right? Sometimes he lixes up his metters."

Mokuba laughed. Tristan put his head in his hands, and even Téa looked amused. Yugi scratched something onto a sheet of paper, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "...murder the ogre..." and gestured for Téa to take her turn.

"Um...Althor?" she asked, glancing at Mokuba. "After you hit the first one, you looked...like you were listening to something. What did you hear?"

"As I said, these wolves are agents. They speak to me. They are...testing us."

"Why?"

Mokuba frowned. "I do not know. They say that we must defeat them before they will speak further."

"Crack 'em heads, crel...uh...cler...um...priest girl!" Joey offered.

_"Cleric. _And I do not...crack heads. That's your job, you...unsavory brute."

"Yes," Mokuba said. "If only he happened to be better at it."

Téa grinned, and it seemed like she was finally starting to enjoy herself.

Yugi caught Mokuba's eye again, and winked.

Mokuba winked back.

Joey continued to grumble about cheating wolves.

And the _real _game began.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The game being played is the 4<strong>__**th**__** Edition of Dungeons & Dragons**__**published by Wizards of the Coast, a tabletop RPG of which I am reasonably familiar, as my friends and I have played for six months or so.**_

_** I hope that you had fun with this, and I'll see you guys later this week. As my graduation ceremony is on Thursday evening, the new chapter may come on Friday. We'll see what happens.**_

_** See you then, everyone.**_

_** Take care.**_


	13. Someone Strong to Lean On

_**This was written while eating a late-night dinner at my local Subway. Why is this important? Probably isn't. I was just making conversation. Hey, how 'bout that hot topic on the news? Yeah, that's seriously crazy, right? Right. Yeah.**_

_** Seto has severe Daddy issues. He won't admit it, but we all know it's true.**_

_** This explores one of the many, many reasons why.**_

* * *

><p>Mokuba didn't call for his father.<p>

He never called for his father. Everyone knew it. His preschool class knew it; the neighbors knew it; the mailman knew it; even Kohaku Yagami's coworkers, who didn't dare to pry into his personal life after the time he'd nearly assaulted George Rowell with a framing hammer, knew it.

To little Mokuba, who understood as much about the world as a goldfish about biology, the only parent he had was called a "bwudder." His teacher, Mister Bridge, had tried to explain the difference. But he'd only tried once. Mokuba had no idea what teach-teach was talking about when he said, "Dad." And when Mokuba asked teach-teach to 'spwain, it all came back to bwudder. "Who tucks you in at night?" he'd asked.

"Bwudder do that. Bwudder tuck bed, tell stowy."

"Who makes your breakfast in the morning."

"Bwudder make that."

"Lunch? Dinner?"

"Bwudder cook all kinds food."

"Your homework? Does your brother help you with that, too?"

"Uh-huh."

It didn't escape Mister Bridge's notice that it wasn't Kohaku who walked into the classroom at the end of each day. It was young Seto, who was already attending high-school level classes at eleven years old. Young Seto, who talked to Mister Bridge about lessons and homework and field trips.

One day, Mister Bridge stopped the two brothers as they were packing up and asked to speak to their father; was he outside in the car, waiting for them? "No," said Seto, "he's working. I can give you his manager's phone number if you want. But I need to get Mokuba home. Come on, Mokie. Get your pack on. Let's go."

"Home. Take pack-pack home."

"That's right." Seto smiled and ruffled the small boy's messy black hair. He held out a hand, and Mokuba took it immediately, grinning from ear to tiny ear. "Come on."

"Ah…Seto?" Mister Bridge said, holding up a hand of his own. "Hold on a moment. Do you want me to get a bus for you? Or…give you a ride home myself?" He wasn't sure why he was making such an offer, and knew it wouldn't do any good as soon as he got a good look at Seto's face.

"We don't live that far away," Seto said dismissively. "Thank you, Mister Bridge, sir, but I don't trust you enough to accept a ride. I barely know you." He bowed deeply. "I'm sorry, sir. I know how rude that sounds."

"Bwudder," Mokuba said, tugging on his elder brother's sleeve and looking concerned. "He good guy. Good guy, bwudder. We twust him."

"Sorry, Mokie."

"I wa' car. Car go fast. No tired." Mokuba pouted for a moment, but when Seto didn't say anything, he looked up and added a hasty, wheedling, "Pwease?"

"No, Mokuba," Seto declared in a tone of quiet finality. Mokuba lowered his head. "I'm sorry, little guy. Come on. I'll take you to the park, okay?" Mokuba's little face brightened immediately. "How would that be?"

"Park? We go park? Park!"

"Yes. Come on, baby brother. Let's go to the park."

"Yay! Park!" Mokuba cried ecstatically.

Seto was still smiling. But it wasn't the smile of an older boy who intended to play right alongside his brother for a while; it was the smile of a doting parent. A smile to be worn as he sat on a bench nearby and watched overt the boy as he clambered up the ladder for a ride on the slide, or climbed on the jungle gym or tried to figure out how a merry-go-round worked.

It was the smile that Kohaku Yagami never wore.

Absurdly, Edward Bridge wondered for a moment if Seto had stolen it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>If you take a look at the second chapter of the original Good Intentions, you'll know that I subscribe to the compound theory that—one—Seto's mother died shortly after giving birth to Mokuba and—two—Seto's father (who was dependent on his wife for love, support, and self-worth) shut down emotionally and couldn't bring himself to care for, or even about, Mokuba once that happened.<strong>_

_** Seto took over the post, and as he grew into it he began to appreciate that what his father had done wasn't an insult so much as a blessing; by leaving the raising of Mokuba to his firstborn, Kohaku gave him something extremely important: personal fulfillment. Was it intentional? I doubt it. Was it healthy? Surely not.**_

_** But did it work out for the best?**_

_** Probably.**_


	14. You Think You Won

_**It was requested that I feature Connor again, and as I'm always happy to explore the psyches of my own creations, I figured that I would oblige. At his creation, Connor was little more than a name. But I figured, with Mokuba's past, anyone he'd choose to befriend would have to be more than your typical schoolyard buddy. Kid's got high standards, just like his brother.**_

_** Seems a common thread that Mokuba is friendly with the main group; he's often the intermediary between them and Seto. But he's got to have friends his own age, doesn't he? Well, that's why Connor's here. They're out there. Just takes a while to find them.**_

* * *

><p>Connor Brinkley wasn't exactly used to standing up for himself. He'd always thought it was easier and more accommodating to stay quiet, to stay out of sight. You know who bullies noticed? The people who drew attention to themselves. That's what he'd thought. He'd thought it was true, too, honestly true, for a really long time.<p>

And then he'd skipped sixth grade, gone straight to Middle School at eleven years old, and realized that he was now drawing attention to himself just by _being _there. His parents had worried that he would miss his friends from his old class, but the truth was that none of them had been all that friendly, when you came right down to it.

Eddie hadn't come to his tenth birthday. Joel hadn't been able to help him out with that essay that was worth more points than two tests. Amanda couldn't even remember his name half the time when they met in the hallway. She kept calling him Conrad.

A month at East Rivers Middle, and Connor wanted his old acquaintances back.

Until…

"Hey, smart kid!"

One of the older boy's friends punched him in the arm and said, "You moron, that's Kaiba's friend. Whatever you're thinkin' of doing…yeah, don't."

"Man, shut up." The older boy sat down in front of him. "Word out's you know math." He took a couple of crumpled sheets of paper out of his back pocket and tossed them onto Connor's desk. "I didn't get a damn thing on old man Hall's handout. What's this 'variable' shit about, anyway?"

Connor glanced up at the boy and raised an eyebrow. "There's this process called 'taking notes' they made up a while ago. You might think of trying that. Might help. Mister Hall covered this stuff in class."

The boy blinked, obviously not used to this kind of treatment. "…What, you think I got nothing better to do than listen to that old bastard?"

Connor smirked. "Doesn't sound like it." He pushed the paper away. "Can't. I'm busy."

"…What? Hey, hold on, man, I—"

"Leave it," said the friend.

"No, I ain't gonna—"

Connor had taken out a book and started to read.

If he had to pick one thing Mokuba Kaiba had taught him, it was that standing up for yourself didn't mean putting up your fists and yelling at people. It didn't have to mean confrontation. It could just as easily mean refusing to be treated badly. He felt his stomach fluttering and his temperature rise, but he didn't let it show. He looked up and raised a calm eyebrow even though he felt the exact opposite of calm running up through him like wildfire.

Calm façade.

Calm…façade.

Breathe slowly, don't look at him. Don't show doubt. Don't show anything less than supreme confidence. Just read. If they think you aren't interested, if they think you aren't scared, they won't know what to do. They can't handle this.

The older boy pulled Connor's book down and stared at him. "What the _hell, _kid? You think you can just ignore me?"

"Donny!" the friend hissed. "Don't be stupid!"

Donny curled one hand into a fist.

Connor's eyes widened, and suddenly his mouth went dry.

He froze. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. No. It's not what…it's not how it happened. This wasn't right. It wasn't going to happen. He'd done it. Just like Mokuba . Calm. Strong. He'd done it!

He _had!_

"You think you're too good for me?"

Connor saw the door, his only escape, and Mokuba stepped into the classroom, his bag slung over one shoulder. He hung it on his chair and sat down, not even looking at them. Connor was about to speak when he noticed Donny's friend, who was staring at the young Kaiba with nothing less than absolute terror.

"We're leavin'," the boy said, pulling Donny out the door. "We're sick today! Caught the flu! _Move!"_

Connor let out a shaky breath and noticed that the rest of the class was torn between looking at him and looking at Mokuba, who looked to be studying, serene and entirely oblivious to what had just happened. He caught more than a few appreciative smiles headed his way, and a thumbs-up or two.

Later, days later, Connor had a moment to ask Joey Wheeler—the most approachable of Mokuba's older friends—how the Kaiba brothers had such a reputation that they could scare people without even trying. "He just walked in the room!" the blond boy said. "That's all he had to do, and they just…ran! How's he _do _that?"

Joey shrugged, a resigned, helpless little smile on his face.

He said, "Don't ask, kid. Don't ask."

And Connor wasn't sure if the man was holding back laughter, or biting back tears.

* * *

><p><em><strong>How do you explain to a halfway well-adjusted, "normal" person (a kid, no less), Seto's reputation? On its face, the crux of the issue is billions of dollars backing a bad attitude. But there's something deeper than that.<strong>_

_** Seto Kaiba is not above beating, maiming, and killing, if pressed. He's not an armchair general sending out his legions of workers like so many chess pieces. He's right there on the front lines, weapon in hand. There's only one thing more dangerous than an angry man; it's an apathetic one. Seto doesn't care who you are, or what you're doing; cross him, and it's on.**_

_** Cross his brother, and it's over.**_

_** Take a look at the most recent chapters of the original Good Intentions, and you'll know what I mean.**_

_** Take care, everyone.**_

_** 'Til Thursday.**_


	15. When You Left for Santa Monica

_**Sorry this one's late; I got sucked into another project last night and lost track of myself. I wrote this early in the morning, but didn't get home until recently. But, here she is. Hope you like.**_

_** I'm working on the last leg of the "Shot in the Dark" series for the original Good Intentions, and hope most sincerely that now summer's on us again—and this year, I'm not in such a horrendous mood that I can't write to save my life—I'll be able to finally work out the last couple of scenes and get it out there for you. It's an important chapter, and sets the stage for a lot of what's to come.**_

_** In the meantime, I hope this snapshot scene will suffice:**_

* * *

><p>At first, when Mokuba mentioned to Connor that he would be going to a gaming convention in Santa Monica over the next few days, he'd been jealous of his friend, thinking that he would get to play videogames all day with his legions of fans.<p>

Well, the games were there, as were the legions: but Mokuba didn't actually get to _play _any of the games, and the fans were for Kaiba-Corp, not Mokuba himself. While it was true that he had a following online in the tournament gaming scene, the younger Kaiba was not nearly as popular as his inventor-scientist-gamer-billionaire brother, and people weren't exactly clamoring for Mokuba's autograph, except a select population of teens and young children in Domino City.

"He hasn't _played_ a game at a convention since his first, three years ago," Yugi Mutou told Connor one day, when he'd stopped at the Turtle Game Shop on his way home to see if they carried model rockets; they did, but they were out right now. "He goes to help Kaiba. Give demos, a speech or two, answer questions. That kinda stuff. From what I hear, it's not all that fun. Just exhausted"

"Only a Kaiba would attend E3 to _work," _said Rebecca Hawkins at school the next day; Connor understood that she had known the Kaibas for a couple of years, and she and Mokuba had struck up a friendship when he'd first transferred to East Rivers Middle. "I don't know why I'm surprised. You should've seen him at the KC Grand Prix event. I've seen seasoned veteran showmen three times his age with half his charisma."

Being friends with Mokuba Kaiba was exhilarating, but Connor couldn't deny that it was a bit daunting as well. He'd done more in his eleven years to build a career than most people did in thirty. It _wasn't _too surprising, really, considering who his role model was, and it wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't _also _been getting such good grades in school.

Saturday at noon, when Mokuba and his brother got back into the city, and gotten things in order, the first place they went was Connor's house. Mokuba was dressed in a tailored suit—black, pinstriped, with a burgundy shirt and a peacock-feather tie—and his hair was pulled back into a braid. It would have been a ridiculous understatement to call the expression on his face relieved as he crossed the threshold into the front room. When Seto gave him a hug goodbye, the boy collapsed against him.

"You did well, kiddo," the elder Kaiba whispered gently, so gently, ruffling his brother's hair. "I'm proud of you. Now, you have fun, all right? That's an order."

Mokuba smiled against his brother's side. "Yes, Niisama."

"Good. I'll pick you up tomorrow. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Any negative thoughts Enid Brinkley—who had come to greet the Kaibas with her son—may have had about Seto for putting his brother through such a strenuous vacation were quelled by two things: one, Seto looked far more exhausted than Mokuba ever would; and two, the light in the black-haired boy's grey-violet eyes when he knew he'd gained his Niisama's approval was brighter than a solar flare. The fatigue washed out of him in half a blink.

Seto left, smiling the faintest bit.

Connor rubbed his hands on his pants, nervous. "Um…you wanna watch TV or something…?" he asked tentatively.

Mokuba's eyes were worshipping. _"God, _yes."

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Electronic Entertainment Expo was, in fact, held in Santa Monica, California in 2007. The actual dates don't match up to the timeline of this scene, but I figure it's close enough for government work. If KaibaCorp were indeed a real corporate entity, I think it's nigh-impossible that they wouldn't have a presence there.<strong>_

_** Rebecca Hawkins—yes, the bane of many a Yugi fangirl's existence—is mentioned here for the first time. She'll have a role later on in the main story of Good Intentions, but this is the first time she's actually said a word in any of my published stories. Odd to think about that. Those of you worried about her being as annoying as she is in the anime, don't worry. I know what I'm doin'.**_

_** See y'all this weekend.**_

_** Take care.**_


	16. I'm About to Lose My Mind

_**I'm sorry about the weekend. The sad fact of the matter is, we're nearing the 20,000-word mark on this particular project, and while ideas for the project aren't running scarce, per se, I am finding it more difficult to work out each scene. It's taking more and more time to figure out what to write.**_

_** It would be immensely helpful if you guys could let me know what you want to see. What characters, what sorts of scenarios, anything in the main story of Good Intentions upon which you'd like me to elaborate.**_

_** Again, I'm sorry; I'm aware that this sounds like an excuse.**_

_** Of course, a big part of it is probably that I've been working rather extensively on another project lately. I'll speak to my creative partner, and see if she has any ideas to help refresh the process. In the meantime, though, do please think about what you'd like to see. It would help immensely and, if I do my job right, it'll be more entertaining for you.**_

_** That said, I hope this long chapter makes up for the lack of weekend-ness, at least partially.**_

* * *

><p>He didn't think that Mokuba was strictly conscious of the reason why Connor Brinkley was one of the first friends he'd ever made in his own age range, but Seto had made a living out of over-analyzing people, and that included his brother.<p>

This particular case was made easier by the fact that it was the same phenomenon that explained his relationships—such as they were—with Yugi Mutou, Joey Wheeler, and Rebecca Hawkins: they weren't interested in money. It seemed simple, and somewhat of a cliché, but just because it was simple didn't mean it wasn't true.

Being "the rich kid" brought any number of would-be pals to the forefront, and it had only been exacerbated once Mokuba had begun appearing on television alongside his brother. There hadn't been a week that went by during his fifth-grade year when Mokuba hadn't had to fight off a new candidate for Bestest Buddy in the Whole Wide World. "They just wanna play your games, and see your house, and ride in your car, and act like bigshots," Mokuba had told Seto one particularly draining day, and it was the first time Seto could recall the younger Kaiba ever looking and sounding resentful of the fact that his Niisama was famous.

After Siegfried von Schroeder, Seto had had to face the very real fear that Mokuba was no longer interested in other people. He had his contained little bubble of a social circle, and that was all he'd been interested in keeping. He'd had faith in people. He'd had faith in humanity. He'd had faith in the von Schroeder family in spite of all they'd done…and how had humanity repaid him? How had the world repaid him? It had shoved a gun barrel into his mouth.

Seto still remembered one thing, paramount to anything, from those first days: Joey Wheeler, the loser; Joey Wheeler, the luck-fevered idiot; Joey Wheeler, the street brawler with a G.E.D., calling the house of a man he hated, every weekend like clockwork, to check on a boy he barely knew.

"Why do you keep calling this house?" Seto had asked once.

He remembered a day when the blond would have told him to fuck off; wasn't none o' his business, and why should _he_ care if he wanted to check on the kid, was he _that _muchuva prick? But Joey didn't say that. He said, _"Look, Kaiba. I know better'n I used to that all he needs is you. You done right by that kid, 'n I'm not gonna knock that anymore. But whether he talks to us or not, whether he needs us or not, we want him to know we're still here. We ain't goin' nowhere. He reached out t' us, and we don't forget that. That goes for me, Tristan, Yugi, and I'm sure if Téa was here it'd go for her, too. We take care of our own."_

Something, some part long forgotten in Seto Kaiba's mind, something largely subconscious that he wouldn't truly understand until much later, clicked back into place. A smile actually curved his lips, and he'd said, "…I understand."

After a month, Seto had ceased working from home. He hadn't wanted to leave his brother alone, he still didn't, but he knew that if he never reclaimed his life, Mokuba would never reclaim _his. _So he'd gone, he'd stepped out into the open world again with the same attitude that had taken him to the top, the same attitude that had overthrown Kaiba Gozaburo, the most infamous corporate overlord of the century: _I refuse._

Refuse to give up. Refuse to back out. Refuse to take no for an answer and refuse to let others take control. Not long after he'd taken back his empire, Seto had been immensely pleased to see his brother follow. Mokuba went back to school, and he went back to smiling. He went back to socializing, to going over to the Turtle Game Shop on weekends to play _Magic & Wizards _and _Dungeons & Dragons _and anything else that happened to strike his fancy, with his friends. The people who accepted him. The people who stood by him.

It hadn't been until Hawkins that he'd bothered talking to children his own age.

Seto remembered with some amount of chagrin when he'd actually spoken to the girl's grandfather, on the day before their planned vacation to Egypt. "Understand one thing, Professor," he had said, with a completely straight face and a surprisingly earnest voice. "If she intends to take this trip as an excuse to abandon him…I don't want either of you in my city."

It was not an empty threat. He remembered how much Mokuba had clung to Rebecca Hawkins, what it had done for him to have her companionship, and there was nothing Seto could do to pay a fraction of it back. To leave after that, to force him into isolation after that…if _that _was what she intended to do—and the part of Seto that remembered his childhood would always believe the worst in peopl,e and expect it at every turn—then he would stop at nothing to crush her, _and _her family, into the dirt.

Professor Hawkins hadn't responded to the threat, not with words _or _with a change of expression. It had been Rebecca, striding up to them with all the confidence of a corporate executive, who had said: "If I didn't know you, and how little reason you have to trust people, I'd be insulted." She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. "I wouldn't do that to Mokuba. I like him. And besides, if you threaten everybody who wants to be around him, doesn't that kind of defeat the whole purpose?"

Seto had stared at her for a long moment. "…Well put," he admitted. "Rational thought seems to have abandoned me." He had bowed his head, the closest to an apology that he could muster, and left them alone.

He also remembered when Mokuba had first met Connor Brinkley, how worried he had been because Connor was frightened of him. Mokuba had never really run into a situation like that before. Seto was used to the effects and even the advantages of fear. Mokuba wasn't.

It hadn't taken too long for the young Kaiba to win over the entire Brinkley family. Seto wasn't surprised at that; his kid brother was immensely gifted when it came to making the right impression on people. Seto knew that the main reason they had hit it off so quickly was because Connor hadn't even been aware of the Kaibas' reputations; not really. But that had only made the stress of the situation worse for Mokuba, who agonized over what would happen once Connor knew about it. Once he realized how famous, and how wealthy, his new friend was.

Eventually, it had happened. Someone had mentioned how much they had enjoyed Mokuba's last interview. Connor, too curious to hold himself in anymore, asked how mnay times Mokuba had been on TV, and what people interviewed him about. Mokuba told him that he was often the mouthpiece for the company's projects.

He, and Seto himself, had expected Connor to ask about the games. Maybe if he could play them. It was a logical request, and one that Mokuba would have been happy to oblige; but Connor hadn't asked about the games. He hadn't asked to play, or to get any sort of inside information.

He had simply asked, "Do you have the interviews and stuff recorded somewhere? Can I see?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>The details of how Mokuba and Connor met will be covered in the main story of Good Intentions, once the current story arc is finished. I have a variety of things going on for the rest of this week, but I intend to work extensively on that chapter over the weekend. My partner and I will get that worked out and up for you all.<strong>_

_** I promise, it will be worth the wait.**_

_** I'll see you all next time.**_

_** Take care.**_


	17. I'm the Shadow on the Ground

_**One has to wonder how Seto managed to go to school when he was younger. How did he manage his time to the point that he was able to go to school, run Kaiba-Corp, keep his skills as a tournament duelist sharp enough to remain competitive, and raise Mokuba all at the same time?**_

_** Willpower and insomnia, I suspect.**_

_** After high school, what did he do? Did he go to college? He certainly could have gotten anywhere he wanted. Did he bother? I submit that he did. For a very specific reason.**_

* * *

><p>"We live in a culture that reveres its children," said Doctor Manheim, arms crossed over his substantial middle as he leaned against his desk and looked out at the group of students in front of him. He was a big man, tall and thick, with long hair and a scraggly beard that was going grey at his chin. He wore thin glasses perched atop a bulbous nose, and his mouth was curved in a bright smile. Laugh lines creased the edges of his dark eyes. He reminded any number of his students (and colleagues) of a young Santa Claus. "Some might even say that we've deified them. That is the focus of our time today. I ask you this simple question: is it possible to love your children too much? And on the heels of that…if it is, is this country guilty of it?"<p>

There were a number of parents in this room, and they all found each other and began to speak at once. Manheim scanned the group in front of him with an unfocused but somehow engaged expression on his face, and his eyes stopped on the one parent in the room who was _not _speaking to the others. He was watching his instructor, cobalt eyes intense yet apathetic. This one did not seem interested in the discussion. He did not wish to hear from his fellow students. Manheim knew this.

Manheim didn't make a habit of following mainstream news—he was one of those sociologists convinced that Big Media was one of the roots of all hardship in the world—choosing instead to read a number of independent newsletters and internet editorials. He knew the name of Seto Kaiba, but only with the barest understanding of who he was, and what it meant to have him in class.

Kaiba sat with his legs straight, knees belt at a perfect 90-degree angle, feet flat on the ground. His arms were bent, his hands clasped atop his desk. He did not speak, he did not even seem to breathe.

Hands began to jump into the air. One person claimed that yes, it was _possible _to love your children too much, but the country wasn't guilty of doing it. There were too many neglectful parents out there for _that _to be true. Another woman claimed that it _wasn't _possible. Your children should be the center of your lives; they were the most important things in the world. They were the precious future. They were _everything._

Every other answer to the question was somewhere along the spectrum of those two extremes; there were no neutral responses. This was Manheim's teaching method. He often let his students do most of the discussing, taking their answers and logging them in his mind, which was much sharper than his appearance and general demeanor would indicate.

Forty minutes of the hour-and-a-half period were finished before he finally spoke again, saying, "Mister Kaiba? You're the youngest of us. Part of the new generation. What's your take on this topic?"

Some murmurs broke out that Kaiba—and Manheim—ignored.

The young executive turned his head slowly, almost mechanically, to regard his professor's sparkling brown eyes. He said, slowly but with an undercurrent of anger, "…This country has deluded itself into _thinking _that it reveres its children. The truth of the matter is that it _coddles _its children in some misguided attempt at being recognized as heroic for preserving innocence where it cannot be preserved."

Manheim raised an eyebrow. "And the other question? Is it possible to love one's children too much?"

"When your love for a child overshadows your ability to keep your distance enough to _raise _that child, it's too much," Kaiba snapped. "When your love for a child leads you to depend on that child, it's too much. When a child understands, recognizes, and feels responsible for your love, it's too much."

The problem with the Kaiba boy was that he always had an accusatory sound to his voice that made it entirely too easy to take offense to anything he said. Manheim figured that that was why Ellie McAllister, to whom Kaiba's eyes seemed to have drifted partway through his answer, stood up. She was a tough old bird with a penchant for being particularly opinionated, not to mention loud.

"You gotta _lot _of nerve coming in here and saying that to us," she snapped. "Who you think you are, talking down on us like you know anything? What's a brat like you know about parenting?"

Kaiba had a look on his face that would have sent braver women than Ellie McAllister running for their lives. Years later, he would refuse to let such a thing rile him. Years later, he would simply ignore the jibe and understand that perception often had little to do with the truth. But he was sixteen years old, still drunk with the power of newfound freedom and an ultimately naïve belief that people could be convinced to understand him if he just told them enough times.

And so he rose.

"You speak of nerve," he said in a voice that would have felt right at home on the tongue of an emperor. "I am many things, McAllister. A boy is _not _one of them." This was untrue, but he did not know that yet. "I may have only recently been _legally _recognized as my brother's guardian, but I have _been _so for far longer. He was born when I was eight years old. I have been his caretaker ever since then. His _only _caretaker."

A few of the other students, the younger set, knew this. They'd heard Kaiba's story. Orphaned at eleven years old, adopted by the richest man in the city a year later, raised to be the successor to the post of Chief Executive Officer of the Kaiba Corporation. Emancipated at fifteen after his adoptive father's death. And all through this…his small, worshipping little brother had run at his heels.

_"I _changed his diapers. _I _taught him to talk, to read, to write. _I _took him to school, _I _picked him up, _I _spoke to his teachers, _I _attended his school plays. _I _took him to the park in the summer. _I _helped him with his homework. _I _taught him right from wrong!" The more he spoke, the more passionate he became, and Manheim could understand why such a young man had made such an effective CEO. He was a font of determination. "As soon as it was legal to put it in my name, I have paid to keep a roof over his head. I have paid to keep food on his table. I have kept him warm, I have kept him secure, I have kept him _happy. _I sign his permission slips, I set his curfew. I wake him up in the morning. I give him his lunch money. I set his allowance."

Ellie McAllister was staring at him, speechless now.

Some of the others, Manheim included, were smirking.

"Everything that must be done to properly raise a child, I have done," Kaiba declared. "I researched, I practiced, I executed. Not a single adult assisted me. Not my father, not my godparents, not my social workers, not my caretakers at the Domino Children's Home. _I _was left to do it. _All _of it." He leaned down and clutched the handle of the briefcase he brought with him to class each week. "The only reason I'm even here is so that my brother will know that an education is important. So that he will know, whenever it gets too hard for him to handle, that his Niisama did it. I don't _need_ this class, I don't _need_ this degree. I could buy this _institution _if the mood struck me! But I go…for him. What do I know of parenting?" he sneered. "Too much. What do I know of loving a child? Too much. So watch your mouth."

He stepped out from behind his desk and stopped in front of his instructor. "I have to leave. Mokuba has a presentation at his school auditorium tonight. I will not be attending Friday's class. One of my employees will bring my research paper to you."

Manheim nodded. "That's fine. I'll see you again next week, then, Mister Kaiba."

"Thank you, Doctor," Kaiba said, and strode out of the room, his midnight-black trench coat billowing out behind him like the robe of a king.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Some of you requested more flashback scenes, and in a way this qualifies. The Seto in my work, for the most part, is about 20. He may have been 16 in canon, but I find him more compelling at a later age. So this is a look back at how he looked at the world, and how he dealt with people, before he'd fundamentally given up on them.<strong>_

_** Seto is a misanthrope. This scene, I think, is one of the many reasons why.**_

_**He's a dark man. Dark moods, dark emotions, dark past, dark future.**_

_**What makes him compelling to me is that he keeps fighting. He keeps on going.**_

**_Any number of us could learn something from that._**


	18. Stands Hard as a Stone

_**One of my long-running theories is that Seto doesn't want Mokuba to know about what he had to endure while being "raised" by Gozaburo. Another of my long-running theories is that he does. They keep quiet about it, though, because it doesn't warrant discussion. You could say, and you'd be right, that both Kaiba brothers could stand to have therapy. It would help, likely as not.**_

_** Just try convincing either of them to do it.**_

* * *

><p>It's a time Mokuba doesn't like to think about. One of those things you keep in the back of your mind because if you let it come forward, it consumes you. Whenever he thinks back to the fear, to the anger, to the shame…he finds himself unable to think about anything else for days afterward.<p>

Niisama tries to help. Niisama knows what he feels better than anyone else, but even Niisama doesn't understand. He doesn't know what it feels like to stand so close to death that he could smell its breath, taste its intent, cold and hard and metallic, and look straight into Hell. Mokuba doesn't _want _Niisama to ever have to feel anything like that. Niisama goes through so much, puts up with so much, has so much on his shoulders…he doesn't need to suffer anything else. He shouldn't have to suffer anything else.

So Mokuba puts on a brave face, and he smiles. He's brave, and he's smart, and he's friendly. He makes sure Niisama doesn't have to worry, because that's the last thing he needs to be thinking about. He has too much to worry about already. Mokuba plays games with his friends, and he plans trips for weekends and has sleepovers. All so Niisama won't have to worry. Oh, sure, it's fun and all. He has a good time, but in the back of his mind he thinks…this is for Niisama.

Mokuba has to be happy, he has to be fulfilled…because if he isn't, Niisama will blame himself. Strong Niisama, brave Niisama. The man to whom he owes everything he is, and everything he ever will be.

People think Mokuba doesn't know just how much Niisama's done to keep him safe and happy and well-adjusted. They think he doesn't know that Father used to force him to stay up for days at a time, and that he used to let Diamun beat Niisama when he didn't manage to finish whatever project he was supposed to be doing. Diamun was old-fashioned, and he always thought a switch to the backside was what Niisama needed, and Father never said anything about it when it happened, even though he was clearly disgusted.

Father was disgusted by a lot of things.

So is Niisama.

They think Mokuba doesn't know about the scars.

But he does. He's seen them all. He used to lay awake, his eyes only mostly shut, while Niisama pulled his shirt gingerly off of his back, hissing and cursing whenever the fabric rubbed the wrong way. Mokuba used to study the marks, red and screaming but not bleeding—no, never bleeding—and think: _He did that for me. Niisama puts up with it for me._

He lets Niisama think he doesn't know about the scars.

Niisama would be angry with himself if he found out.

Whenever Mokuba thinks about Siegfried von Schroeder, he reminds himself that Niisama might not know what it's like to be that close to death, but it doesn't matter; Niisama suffered through something Mokuba would never understand, something so horrible that there weren't words for it, and whenever Mokuba starts to feel resentful, starts thinking that Niisama wasn't the one with the gun in his mouth, so why's _he _so bent out of shape about it…

He remembers the scars.

And he remembers how tired Niisama always looks, how his eyes never showed it, how his body never showed it…but how he has an _aura _of fatigue around him no matter where he goes. "Yeah, well, it's his own fault for taking on more than he can handle," some dark part of Mokuba's mind will tell him sometimes.

"That's not true," Mokuba will say. "He's tired because he can't sleep. Even when he tries."

"He should see a doctor about it, then."

"He can't. Father taught him not to."

"He should get over it. All the stuff _he_ went through, that's in the past. He should be over it by now."

"No. He lost Mom. He lost Dad. The past is everything to him. Everything good…and everything bad."

"What's the big deal about Mom?"

"She died. What if Niisama died? What if Niisama got killed, and I didn't have him anymore? How would _I _feel? How well would _I _sleep?"

"…Don't talk like that."

Sometimes, when it gets too hard to handle, and he doesn't know what to do to keep himself from exploding, from screaming and ripping his hair out and throwing himself at the wall, he'll find Niisama in his office. And Niisama will look at him with that little smile he doesn't give anyone else, and he'll say, "Hey, kid."

Mokuba will hug him.

"I love you, Niisama," he'll say.

Niisama will stroke back his hair, pat his back, and say, "I love you, too, Mokuba."

And neither of them will remember the scars.

* * *

><p><em><strong>When used correctly, I find that the present tense adds a certain level of power to a piece of writing. Not that I claim to have harnessed that power here. It's just something I use every so often for a change of pace. Once, I wrote an entire novel this way. It's still around, somewhere, but I haven't edited it nearly well enough to do anything with it.<strong>_

_** It took me a long time to get used to writing in past-tense again.**_

_** Mokuba might not seem terribly well-adjusted here, but there's a point to that. Those of you who have read the primary "Good Intentions" storyline will know. Timeline-wise, this is probably just after the incident. He's in a dark place; they both are.**_

_** I may partner this piece with a similar one from Seto's perspective.**_

_** I'll see you all next week.**_

_** Take care.**_


	19. Only the Strongest will Survive

_**When I first wrote this, it was meant to be a chapter for the core story of "Paved with Good Intentions," which incidentally has now been updated with its 19**__**th**__** installment, "Raison d'être" as of yesterday. Those of you who haven't read it, I warn you that there are spoilers for the most recent story arc (which was just concluded), and that this chapter likely won't make much sense for a while.**_

_** That said, I felt that this was more suited for this project, and that after the last chapter, it fit well as a companion piece. While it's longer, and there's more to it, it still focuses on Seto's reactions and the emotional repercussions of the Von Schroeder Incident.**_

_** The first scene, like the last chapter, was written in present-tense.**_

_** Subsequent scenes are in the more standard past-tense.**_

* * *

><p>He stands just in front of the doorway.<p>

He isn't thinking very well right now, and he doesn't even realize it because that's the way the mind works when you're stressed out; it doesn't even really work at all. Your body kicks into instinct mode and you don't have any clue what's going on. That's the way he feels right now.

He's scared in that way that comes from PTSD; he's scared in that way that leads to psychosis. He's so scared that he doesn't feel anything anymore, he's numb and he doesn't even realize the significance of that because he's _numb _and that means there's nothing there. He's holding the gun out in front of him because that's what you do with guns and that's what he needs to do right now. Somebody's going to die; he just doesn't know who it is.

He knows distantly why he's there. It's distant because it's an entirely separate compartment of his brain that houses that information and it isn't exactly important to know right now. But Mokuba looks scared, and he knows that Mokuba is important. Mokuba is special, and Mokuba shouldn't look scared. It's not right, and that's why he's holding a gun in front of himself and preparing to shoot the motherfucker responsible.

The only thing he knows about his enemy is that he's German. That's as far as he thinks because he knows that any time now, the guy's going to be nothing but a body, and bodies don't get names. Bodies are just bodies, and the names they used to carry don't matter anymore, especially to him.

He's waiting because the Enemy is smart, and knows what's going to happen. The Detective is beside him, inching his way to the side, trying to line up a shot. He knows that the Detective means well, but he also knows that it's not going to do any good because the Enemy sees him.

The Enemy puts the barrel of a gun into Mokuba's mouth and he nearly snaps. Now Mokuba is terrified, and he can't think. Damn it, he can't focus! Mokuba…Mokuba, don't cry. Oh, please, baby, don't cry. It's okay…but it isn't okay, and he knows it, and Mokuba knows it and the Enemy knows it and every-goddamn-body knows it and _damn it, what the hell is he supposed to do?_

He can't…he can't think. Damn it all, he can't think.

Don't cry, little guy. Please.

He needs to fire. He needs to shoot, he needs to do it _right now _but he…but he can't. How can he shoot? How can he shoot when Mokuba is so…so—how can he shoot when Mokuba looks so scared? When Mokuba's crying—poor little Mokie is crying and he can't move and he can't save him and…and…

Oh, God.

He can't…he can't do this.

He can't handle this. It's too much, and he's going to break. He can feel it, and it hurts, and he doesn't know how much longer he can keep his feet. He's going to fall. He's going to drop his gun, his arms are heavy and he's going to drop his gun.

And the Enemy wins.

The…the Enemy wins.

"He wins, boy, because you never listen."

Electricity runs up his spine, and his mouth opens wide. No…no, it can't…it can't…!

"Always so sure that you knew better. Always so positive that you had it right. You're a fool, boy, and now there's proof to it. You never listened, and now look where you are. Let this teach you, Seto."

Is…is it the Detective? Is that who…?

"Don't be an idiot!"

He flinches, and his body tenses because he knows what comes next.

"What are you going to learn from _him, _boy? How to lose? He couldn't save _his _son, either, and now you're relying on _him? _Do you do this to spite me? Do you act so abjectly _stupid_ just to make me angry? Is that your _goal_ in life?"

Shut up. Shut up!

This can't be happening. It's not, it can't be, it's—

"How many idiots do you think have said that right before they make the worst mistake of their lives, boy? How often do you think some whimsical sheep thought, 'this can't be happening,' only to be proven wrong? Don't delude yourself. You've insulted me enough already."

Damn you. Not now. Not _fucking _now!

"Yes, Seto," Otousama says, and he takes a gun of his own from within the crimson folds of his jacket, holding it up. He's right behind the Enemy, and he looks like a witness to an execution, and he looks like he's enjoying it. He smirks. "Right now."

He fires.

The sound is distant, and it doesn't sound right but of course it doesn't sound right because Otousama is _dead, _damn it, and what the _hell _is going on and why the _fuck _is this happening now and why can't he _focus?_

"Because you could _never _focus!" Otousama shrieks.

Shut up…shut up…

"Because you're weak."

Shut up!

"You're useless."

_ NO!_

"You've lost."

The Enemy flinches in surprise when Otousama fires his gun, and turns. And he realizes that the time has to be now, and he lifts his gun again, and he prepares to shoot because the angle is perfect now, and damn it if he can just get it right, he has the chance now. He can do it. He can _do_ this! It can happen!

Otousama is laughing. "Your mother would be ashamed to have such an idiot for a son."

Wha—no! No, that's not true! It's not _fucking true!_

And he aims, and he fires.

But the Enemy is too fast. No, this isn't supposed to happen this way. It isn't right. No, damn you, this isn't—and the sound of his own shot is deafened by another, and everything shifts, and it's too late. It's…it's…too late…

"You've failed, Seto. And now…there's proof to it."

And he can't see Mokuba anymore…

…Because the blood is too thick.

Hit by two bullets at the same time, Mokuba is decapitated.

He has failed.

And Otousama is still laughing.

Seto screams.

* * *

><p>He'd always loved the Swordstalker.<p>

Even when he hadn't been all that interested in _Magic & Wizards _(like he was now), Mokuba Kaiba had kept a collection of cards. Even when he hadn't played, he'd enjoyed looking through the artwork. He remembered that for the first booster set (which included the Swordstalker), Pegasus Crawford had painted each design by hand; if there was one thing he could say with absolute certainty that he _liked _about the man who had kept him prisoner in a dungeon cell, it was his ability as an artist. Most collectors Mokuba had talked with online agreed that, while the artwork for subsequent sets (for which Pegasus had allowed other, specially selected, artists to showcase their work) was good, none of them could truly stand up against the first.

For his seventh birthday, Seto had had a plush toy of his brother's favorite monster made. Mokuba had been ecstatic to have his own personal Swordstalker to guard his room, and he'd slept with it tucked under one arm for the next three years.

He didn't sleep with it very regularly anymore, choosing instead to keep it displayed on the shelf that held his stereo. But he found himself taking his little Stalker down from its post more and more often as of late, as if a part of him thought that maybe it would use its flimsy golden saber to ward off nightmares for him. He woke up to find it just where it had been for those first few years, and Mokuba immediately found a faint smile whenever he did.

He couldn't remember anymore _what_ he had dreamed, but he found the darkness surrounding him to be especially imposing tonight, and after a few minutes trying to ignore it, the young Kaiba tossed his sheets aside with a grunt and tossed himself out of bed, holding his old toy by one arm and slipping out into the hallway.

Part of him felt a twinge of embarrassment as he thought of what he was doing, wondering what his brother would think of him if he just popped into his room, pouting, and said, "Nii'tama? I ha' ba' dweam. C'I sweep wif you?"

Shaking his head, Mokuba decided he didn't care.

As he approached his brother's bedchamber, the same room where their adoptive father had once spent his nights, Mokuba frowned as he heard something unusual. Opening his brother's door, the black-haired boy was surprised to see Seto twitching, turning, almost flailing in his sleep. His face was contorted half with rage and half with fear, and suddenly thoughts of his own nightmare fled Mokuba's mind.

"Niisama!" he breathed.

Seto wasn't mumbling or muttering so much as he was growling. Mokuba thought that he was saying something, but he couldn't make anything out; it was gibberish. But whatever it was, it sounded angry. His breathing was harsh, his body tense nearly to the breaking point, and Mokuba half-expected his brother's muscles to snap, with the twang of a guitar string tuned too tightly.

Clambering up onto Seto's bed (his Swordstalker falling, forgotten, to the floor), Mokuba shook his brother's shoulder. "Niisama! Niisama, wake up!" Seto's eyes flared open with a sharp intake of breath. He stiffened, and nearly shook Mokuba off. "Niisama?" the boy asked tentatively. "Are…are you okay?"

Seto blinked, rising to a sitting position and looking around himself like a boy afraid of monsters hiding in the shadowy corners of the room. He put a hand to his chest and lowered his head as he forced his breathing to slow. Mokuba kept a hand on his brother's upper arm, waiting.

"..ead…" Seto whispered.

"Niisama?"

"…Dead…""

"Niisama? What is it? What…what's wrong?"

"Goddamn it…he's _dead…"_

"Niisama!"

Seto flinched and turned, dazed, as if he hadn't noticed that Mokuba was even there. When he saw the black-haired boy beside him, he seemed not only surprised but downright _stunned_, and he stared openly. He tried to speak for several seconds, managing at best to barely choke out the first two syllables of his little brother's name but never all three. Mokuba saw something in those cobalt eyes that he'd only ever seen once before, and he thought he knew what his Niisama's nightmare had been about.

That kind of desperate, shaking, painful terror had come only from one source: Siegfried von Schroeder. And when Seto pulled Mokuba to him, hugging him with such force that Mokuba grunted in sudden pain, he knew for sure. He said nothing, even though it hurt. He reached around and linked his arms around his brother's neck, trying to remember how Seto always comforted _him._

He dared to whisper,

"It's okay, Niisama…I'm here…"

Seto's only answer was to tighten his grip.

* * *

><p>He was the strong one.<p>

That was the one unflinching truth to existence in the Kaiba family (such as it was). Seto was the strong one. Seto was the shield. To love someone deeply gives you strength, said Lao Tzu; being loved by someone deeply gives you courage. And if he'd been in a romantic mood (not that he ever was), Seto would have said that he had both; he _depended_ on both.

The Kaibas had a symbiotic relationship, and the handful of people who understood that said that they were one person in two bodies; in Seto was the strength, the courage, the power and the drive. In Mokuba was kindness, empathy, forgiveness and patience. Each could not function on his own traits alone, and thrived on the other's. Without Seto, Mokuba would wither into dust, and without Mokuba, Seto would burn into ash.

Seto knew that it was his job to be the fighter. It was his job to be strong. When Mokuba was scared, or sad, or just in need of someone to be there, that was Seto's place in life. When Mokuba wasn't strong enough to stand on his own and fell, it was Seto's job to help him up. And Seto appreciated that. He thrived on it. Being his brother's shield, being the hand that his brother reached for, was a position that he was proud to hold; indeed, he coveted it.

Over the decade during which Seto had grown into that role, there was no way for him to say just when he had decided that being strong meant being cold, but he knew that it had been during those hellish three years under Kaiba Gozaburo's fist. He would have never learned such a sentiment from his mother.

Yagami Yuki's definition of strength was similar in its own way to Gozaburo's, but only in the way that English and Spanish were similar languages by virtue of using the same alphabet; they were connected, but to a native speaker of either, the other was still foreign. Yuki had believed, Seto thought with some confidence, that negative emotions were to be held back, drawn away from the forefront and dealt with quietly. She had never lost her temper in all the eight years Seto had known her; even on those rare occasions that he—still a child in spite of his intellect—had had the temerity to disobey her, Yuki had never raised her voice to him, and had never _dreamed_ of raising her hand.

Yuki had also believed, however, that positive emotions were to be expressed. Not just expressed, but elevated, embraced and celebrated. While her anger was muted, her happiness had been transcendent; Seto had always known when his mother was happy, or proud, or touched, by her eyes. Even though it seemed a bit too poetic for his tastes, he could think of no better way to say it than that they would sparkle.

Gozaburo had been the polar opposite, a mirror image. To the founder of the Kaiba Corporation, happiness and pride, and especially love, were to be summarily ignored. And negative emotions, while not particularly "celebrated," were nonetheless utilized. Gozaburo had been a master of utilizing anger as a tool, almost as a weapon, and this had eventually been passed on to his heir. Seto had learned to follow in his adoptive father's example despite his own wishes, and it had come to be habitual.

And so, in light of his decision those long, long ten years ago, Seto had determined that in order to be strong for his brother, to fulfill his mother's final wish of him to "be a big brother little Mo-chan can rely on," he had to be the breed of strong that could withstand anything. He had to be a father, and the only father he knew with the kind of strength he would need…had been Kaiba Gozaburo.

These thoughts did not so much pass his mind as their _essence _sparked into life in him as Seto held his brother close and tried to block out thought. That spark resisted this…it fought. Because this was wrong. This was not strong. This was not what he needed to be.

When Mokuba said, softly, gently, "It's okay, Niisama…I'm here," Seto very nearly cried.

Because he knew that he needed to hear it.

_Weak. Worthless. Expendable. Just another sheep…_

Seto hugged his brother, feeling tears burn his eyes, and ignored that voice. The voice of the man he had once called "Otousama," because that man was dead. And that man didn't understand. Not like Yuki understood. And not like Mokuba understood.

Strength didn't have to be cold.

* * *

><p>Seto Kaiba woke late that next morning.<p>

He opened his eyes slowly, and as he sat up, he realized that he couldn't even remember the nightmare that had so viscerally affected him during the night. He couldn't see it, couldn't hear it…couldn't even _feel _it anymore. It was gone. It had been banished.

He looked down, and realized that Mokuba was still sleeping, with one hand draped across his brother's middle, and Seto realized what had happened. He remembered with vivid clarity so many nights when Mokuba had come slipping into his bedroom asking to sleep with him, because he had had a bad dream and he was scared. And Seto would let him, and would wrap an arm around the boy's shoulders and they would sleep, Mokuba curled up against his brother, Seto holding him close with that arm. And Mokuba always told him, that next morning, that no more nightmares had plagued him that night. Niisama, he would say, scared them off.

Seto understood with a sudden jolt that Mokuba had done that for _him _this time.

He blinked, looking down at himself, and didn't know what he felt.

Habitually, he slid out of bed, careful not to wake Mokuba, and headed to his closet. Taking out a relatively inexpensive suit for the day—it was Saturday, and he thought he would actually take the day off this time—he headed into the bathroom. After shaving, showering, dressing, and brushing his teeth and hair, all with that kind of mechanical efficiency that comes with long-ingrained habit, Seto stepped out into his bedchamber and drew in a deep breath.

He was about to head out, thinking that he would make Mokuba's favorite breakfast, until he saw something. Well, not so much saw as felt. He stepped on something soft, and looked down. It was a toy. Picking it up, he realized that it was Mokuba's plush Swordstalker, something Seto had had made in conjunction with Industrial Illusions (this was before the Duelist Kingdom tournament, and Seto had known without thinking that Pegasus Crawford would _love _the idea) for his brother's seventh birthday. It was still, remarkably, in almost pristine condition.

He looked at his brother.

_You came in here looking for comfort, _Seto realized, _and…you ended up giving it, instead._

Without a word…without a single word…Mokuba had ignored his own fear and focused on his Niisama's. Had forgotten his own vulnerability to defend his Niisama against nightmares. That thought struck Seto harder than just about any other than he had ever had. He looked down at his little brother's toy, and smiled. Not a muted smile, not a smirk; not the sort of smile he was known to sometimes—about as rarely as a solar eclipse—give in public.

But the sort of smile his mother might have had.

Broad, open, and honest; perhaps the first _real _smile he had had since…since Yagami Yuki had, lying in a hospital bed and keeping herself awake with only the greatest willpower, smiled so gently at her eight-year-old son and asked if he would like to hold his baby brother.

Seto turned, and set the plush Duel Monster into the crook of Mokuba's arm. The boy held it instinctively, murmuring softly in his sleep, and turned onto his side. Seto pulled up the covers and tucked Mokuba in. He stroked back the boy's hair and tucked it behind an ear, and thought that he would not only make Mokuba's favorite breakfast…but his favorite lunch, and his favorite dinner, too. And when Mokuba asked why, Seto would shrug. _Because I felt like it._

He leaned down, and kissed his brother's temple.

"I love you, Mokie," he whispered.

Mokuba smiled, and Seto was relieved; his dreams were peaceful. That was good. That was what should be. He patted the boy's shoulder, still with that smile on his own face. And he marveled at just how much Mokuba looked like his mother. _You used to love him because of how much he reminded you of me, _he heard Yagami Yuki's voice echo in his mind. _Now, I think you still love me…because of how much I remind you of him._

He stepped into the hall.

And when he felt the urge to laugh—for no reason other than that he just felt _good_—he didn't resist it. And when part of him thought that Otousama wouldn't approve, it just made him laugh harder.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Do you remember, in the three-episode filler story right after Duelist Kingdom in the second-series anime, when Seto is trapped inside his own virtual game and Mokuba commissions Yugi and company to help save him? Do you remember, when Mokuba sneaks into the Chamber of Sacrifice and saves his brother from being given to the five-headed dragon, upon which monster he calls?<strong>_

_** Yes. Fukushuu no Soudo-sutaarukaa. The Swordstalker of Vengeance or, in our particular version, just the Swordstalker. That is partially what inspired this piece. I rather liked the idea that there was more to that choice than sheer luck and the fact that it had a sword; I like to think Mokuba picked that monster on purpose.**_

_** Seto's favorite monster is a creature almost entirely composed of light. How ironic, then, if Mokuba's were a figure of darkness? I decided to run with it, and hence you have the second scene of this chapter.**_

_** These two brothers depend on each other in equal measure. Each cannot thrive without the other at his side. I wanted to show that in this chapter; as Seto says to his brother (translated from the original Japanese) during the filler-only Noa storyline of the second-series anime, **_

"_**As long as you're by my side, I can fight."**_

_** That, I think, just about sums it up.**_


	20. The Dad He Didn't Have to Be

_**It was asked that I cover some more of the Kaibas' time at the orphanage, before they became Kaibas, and since it's Father's Day…I thought I'd celebrate the occasion for this 20**__**th**__** chapter. My father doesn't watch anime, and he'll never read this, but nonetheless, this one's for you. We may not share much in the way of interests, except for a love of heavy metal, but you're still half the reason I'm here, writing these stories and figuring out the tangled mess that is my imagination.**_

_** Thanks, Dad.**_

* * *

><p>To say that Father's Day at an orphanage is a somber, bitter occasion would have been a sore understatement. The Domino Children's Home was a quiet place that weekend, and the staff had a difficult time trying to keep the more unruly sorts from acting out even worse than usual.<p>

Those who were here through tragedy, rather than neglect, were quiet and depressed. All except two. Seto Yagami was perhaps the most bitter of them all, and he spent the day holed up in one corner of the dining hall with a stack of books and a notepad. The boy read furiously, throwing pages back and forth, making notes and scratching them out. He muttered things beneath his breath, and the staff seemed perfectly content to leave him to his work. When he was alone, Seto was one of the few that nobody had to worry about; it was when he was dragged out to interact with the others that he turned into a problem.

Mokuba Yagami was perfectly happy, acting like any normal child on Father's Day. He sat at the same table as his brother, drawing and attempting to make paper airplanes and generally trying to look just as busy as his brother. That was, Daniel thought, one reason he was such a thorn in the others' sides. Mokuba was normal. He was happy, he was playful, he was social. Where everyone else had heaps on bounds of emotional issues and baggage to carry—indeed, the boy's brother was the poster child for the cause—Mokuba was obliviously content.

"I wanna…make card," Mokuba told Daniel the day before.

"For your father?" Daniel had asked.

Mokuba stared. He screwed up his face, concentrating, then said, "…Fa…ther? Pa-pah?"

He said it so that it would have rhymed with "hacksaw," and Daniel had to wonder if Mokuba even knew what this day _was. _He might have seen Glen making a card to lay on his father's grave, or David attacking the day on the calendar with a pocketknife.

"It's Father's Day tomorrow," Daniel explained. "Would you like to make a card to give to your father? Your…pa-pah? On his grave?" He said this with infinite tenderness, and to his credit Mokuba didn't seem all that saddened or upset. He just looked slightly confused, like he thought the man in front of him was some kind of idiot.

"…For Nii'tama."

And oddly enough, that made sense.

So Daniel got some construction paper, a glue-stick, glitter, scissors, markers, crayons; everything the other kids had been using. It was a Friday, so Seto was at school, and Mokuba had probably planned it that way, insofar as a three-year-old boy could plan anything. And Daniel helped the younger Yagami make a…Niisama's Day card.

The next morning, he had presented his brother with the finished card—Mokuba had drawn/crafted what looked like it was supposed to be a picture of the two of them, holding hands—and Daniel had made sure that he was in a position to see it. A rare smile had graced Seto Yagami's features, revealing the delicate, handsome boy he could be when anger and irritation didn't have its claws in him. He'd hugged Mokuba close, ruffled his hair, and thanked him.

"Wuv you, Nii'tama," Mokuba said.

Choking up and blinking away tears, Seto managed to reply: "I…love you, too, Mokie."

Daniel found them later on in the evening, still seated at their table. Seto had set aside his books and notes, and he was cutting his brother's meal into bite-sized pieces for him. Mokuba was talking animatedly, and Seto was still smiling. Every so often, he would respond.

"I offered to do that for him when I brought their food to them," one of the workers—Daniel thought her name was Elle; she was new—said as she approached. "The older one refused. Rather blunt, that one."

Daniel smirked. "I've run into a lot of fathers like him. They take their jobs very seriously."

Elle stared at him. "They're…brothers."

As he turned away, Daniel chuckled. "If you say so."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I've run into the idea that Seto is very bitter about Father's Day. Considering Gozaburo, that's probably true. But just because he doesn't celebrate doesn't mean he wouldn't let Mokuba. I think, no matter how bad a mood the day generally puts him into thanks to Kaiba the First, Seto would never discourage Mokuba from making a celebration out of it.<strong>_

_** After all, to Mokuba, "Father" and "Niisama" are one and the same.**_

_** So Happy Niisama's Day, everybody.**_


	21. Every Broken Enemy will Know

_**Minor spoilers for the "Shot in the Dark" storyline for the core story of GI. Just a warning if you haven't read it but intend to do so.**_

_** I know it's been a while. I apologize for the hiatus, but I've been creatively drained for a little while. I don't do well in Summer; heat makes me bitter. Living in California doesn't help. Neither does an internship which requires the wearing of button-down shirts and ties. Nearly all the "good" clothes I own are dark, thick, and sweltering.**_

_** All this is to say, I'm sorry. I'm getting back into the swing of things, and with that comes this: another glimpse into Seto's days as an orphanage bodyguard.**_

* * *

><p>Nobody bothered to ask Seto Yagami what book he was reading <em>this <em>time, or why he was always reading in the first place; it was as commonplace as furniture by this point. Since the staff had even less of a chance of engaging the young genius in conversation than the other children—whom he generally seemed to detest; only a couple of exceptions existed—they didn't take much notice, either. He was typically reading textbooks far beyond his grade level, or else certain types of fiction novels that were probably inappropriate for a twelve-year-old.

The elder Yagami was seated in the courtyard with a huge hardbound tome in his lap, and every so often he would look up to check on his brother, who was playing with a soccer ball someone had donated a few days before. Little Mokuba tossed the ball in his brother's direction at one point, calling out, "Nii'tama! Play!"

Without looking up from his studies, Seto snapped out one foot and sent the ball sailing into the air, eliciting a squeal of excitement from his tiny sibling, who went scrambling to catch it. Kristine Hathaway couldn't help but smile as she watched them together. She and Daniel Elliot sometimes seemed to have taken over the role of the Yagami children's missing parents. Both knew that they weren't supposed to play favorites, but they also thought that the Yagamis were a special case, and so they were most often found focusing their attention on Seto and Mokuba.

She watched them today, and instantly went tense as David Whittaker came sauntering up. She didn't particularly blame the boy for having…social issues. She didn't _blame _any of them. But she couldn't help but worry about David. His parents had been caught in the crossfire of a gang shooting, and his grandmother—who had taken him in afterward—had died of a massive stroke not six weeks later. Of course he was going to be unbalanced.

But he took out his frustration on the younger children, and Kristine couldn't abide by that.

Mokuba was throwing the soccer ball into the air, and David caught it on the way down. "Didn't your mom ever teach you to share?" he asked with a sneer, and Kristine flinched as she saw the look on Seto's face—calmly focused before—instantly harden into the mask of a statue. At Mokuba's blank, confused stare, David snickered. "Oh, that's right. You don't _have _a mom. She probably decided to off herself 'cuz you're so _ugly."_

"David!" Kristine snapped, near to panicking as Seto set his book aside and stood up. "That is _enough."_

"What?" David asked innocently, tossing the ball into the air with one hand. "Just saying, little Yagami here was probably a mistake. Obviously nobody wanted him, or his dad wouldn't have _abandoned _hi—"

"Whittaker."

Kristine had started forward, but she froze.

The sound of Seto Yagami's voice had never before frightened her.

"Hey, I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Yagami, but—"

Seto sent a fist straight into David's middle; the older boy let out a grunt as the air was driven straight out of him. The thin, antisocial bookworm stepped to the side and sent a kick into the back of one knee, driving David to the ground. Seto hopped back, and a sick _thump _echoed in the air as one sneaker collided with David's forehead. He crumpled, unconscious, to the ground.

"…Mister…Yagami…"

Seto turned with a blank expression on his face to Kristine Hathaway, and bowed. "I apologize for my conduct," he said. "I don't tolerate people talking to my brother like that." Looking back up at her, he said, "I believe there will be some kind of correctional effort? Something to deter me from acting like that again?"

He had never taken a punishment looking quite so smug.

David Whittaker never tormented Mokuba Yagami again after that.

Years later, after Seto Kaiba had rebuilt the Domino Children's Home from the ground up and set Kristine in charge, she found herself sitting in her office with David Elliot and Ruth Linden. Ruth seemed to remember something, and she said, "Have you heard what happened last week? With the Kaiba boys?"

Kristine frowned. "Siegfried von Schroeder?" she asked.

Ruth nodded. "They're saying Seto Kaiba _killed_ him."

"I heard," Daniel murmured quietly, cryptically.

"I…I can't believe he would _do _something like that."

Kristine and Daniel looked at each other.

As one, they said, "I can."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seto is a dangerous person. He's an angry person, and he's an arrogant person. These are not a savory combination, and if not for the fact that the first glimpse of him I had was during his duel with Pegasus in Duelist Kingdom, I might be rather disturbed by him. Guy's kind of unhinged.<strong>_

_** But that's why we love him, don't we? He does what we all wish we could get away with, sometimes. And as shown here, it's because he already factors in the consequences ahead of time. He laid the proverbial smack-down because he already knew he'd get in trouble, and decided it was worth it to prove a point.**_

_** Do I agree with his choice of action? Not particularly.**_

_** Do I think it was worth it? I'm not sure.**_

_** Do I admire his willingness to "man up," as it were, and take his punishment without complaint?**_

_** Hell, yes.**_

_** Everybody from the US of A, have a happy Fourth! Everybody from the rest of the world, have a happy Monday. What? They exist, I swear.**_


	22. Someone There to Hold You

_**I must profusely apologize for the delay in getting this out. I had trouble keeping up with my summer class, and my grade was beginning to suffer for it. I don't know if I managed to fully repair the damage, but now the class is over. Thankfully, I have some time before orientation at my new school, with which I hope to get back on track.**_

_** That said, I welcome you to the 22**__**nd**__** snapshot into the Kaibas' lives. Co-starring the Brinkley family.**_

* * *

><p>It was after midnight.<p>

Enid and Leonard Brinkley weren't particularly light sleepers, but they didn't wake up until their son came bursting into the room, knocking on the wall. "Mom! Dad! Wake up!" They weren't fully awake yet, and Enid hadn't quite managed to coax her eyes to focus before she heard Connor picking the telephone off the end-table and punching in a number. They both shot upright when they finally heard the fear in the boy's voice as he said: "Mister Kaiba! I'm sorry to disturb you, but…but…it's Mokuba. Wha—I think he's having a nightmare. I don't know! I…I…!"

Enid didn't bother asking Connor what was wrong; she rushed into the front room where Connor and Mokuba had set up a makeshift campsite out of a feather comforter and what looked like every pillow in the house; the television was still blaring with the colors and sounds of the videogame they'd been playing when Enid had bade them goodnight two hours previous.

Mokuba Kaiba was, as far as Enid was concerned, a marvel. She didn't know every detail of the young celebrity's life, but she knew that he had seen more and dealt with more in his ten years than most people ever would, and he did it with a smile on his face and laughter in his heart. She couldn't recall a single time when the heir to the Kaiba name had ever looked even nervous, much less scared.

But it wasn't fair to call whatever horror that had its claws in him right now a nightmare; Mokuba was thrashing in his sleep, eyes shut tight and teeth bared; terrified, strangled yelps escaped his bulging throat, and he was tangled so tightly in a sheet that Enid thought he might strangle himself before long.

They tried to approach him, she and Leonard both, but he wouldn't let them. For as small and thin as he looked, the young Kaiba was surprisingly strong, and it seemed like no words would penetrate the black-haired boy's tortured imaginings.

When Mokuba's brother arrived, he didn't bother to knock, didn't announce his arrival, and if Leonard had been in anything resembling his right mind, he would have reached for a weapon. It was perhaps, in the end, a good thing that he was so distracted because one look at the elder Kaiba's face was enough to tell Enid that he would have taken any provocation as an excuse to attack.

Enid had seen the Kaibas together; she knew that whatever appearances he put up, Seto Kaiba was a devoted, dedicated guardian who'd staved off the pitfalls of young parenthood better than anyone she could think of. It was no surprise to her when, faced with his little brother's torment, the man's entire _essence _shifted one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

Leonard, however, was—for lack of a more appropriate term—fascinated.

"He's not a bad person," he had said once, "but for the life of me I can't find a single, solitary _pleasant _thing to say about him."

Mokuba had calmed down, sort of.

"Sorry about this," Leonard said as Seto slipped to his knees beside his brother. "Connor was calling your number as he was waking us up."

Seto gave a fleeting glance at Connor, who looked thoroughly shaken. The man gave a short nod, then turned his attention back to Mokuba, pointedly ignoring Leonard entirely. He put a thin hand on the black-haired boy's shoulder. "Mokuba. Mokuba, wake up." His voice wasn't harsh, nor particularly loud, but it was firm. Direct. Mokuba tried to throw his brother off of him, but only managed to claw at Seto's shirt for a while before his eyes flew open with a short, sharp cry that was half-terror, half-pain.

Mokuba saw his brother and threw himself forward, clinging to Seto's neck as if magnetized. "Niisama!" he sobbed. "Niisama! It was…I saw…! It…_he…!"_

"Shhh…" Seto whispered, stroking back his brother's sweat-drenched hair, holding him as tenderly as any mother. "It's okay…everything's okay…"

Even though they were in the Brinkleys' home, the Brinkleys no longer existed to them. For Mokuba, Seto was the only other human being in the world. For Seto, Mokuba. Any and all tension in the room had evaporated.

Mokuba was sobbing into his brother's shoulder, clutching at his shirt.

"What happened…?" Seto asked Connor.

"I…I don't know!" the blond boy wailed. "We were just…we were playing Fire Emblem, and Mokuba said it was my turn, so he was just watching, and…and I went to ask him something, and he was asleep. A…a few minutes later, he started talking. I thought maybe he woke up, but he was dreaming, and…and…"

Seto nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned his attention back to Mokuba. "Shhh…it's all right, baby, it's all right…Niisama's here. I'm right here, Mokuba. You're safe. That's all over now. You're at your friend's house, and you're safe. C'mon…shhh-sh-sh-sh…" He was rocking the boy gently back and forth, and Enid couldn't help but smile a little.

Leonard, arms crossed, looked studious.

Though it would have been entirely natural for Seto to gather up Mokuba's things and carry him home, he didn't. Rather, once the boy had stopped trembling, and his breathing was under control, Seto lay him down and settled him into the comforter. "There, now," he murmured. "Get some sleep, Mokuba. When you wake up, it'll be morning. You and Connor can play a game, watch some TV. Don't worry about the development meeting. I'll bring you up to speed later. You just sleep, and have fun tomorrow. That's an order. Understood?"

Mokuba barely had the cohesion to nod before succumbing to sleep.

Seto stood up, nodded to Connor again, and approached Enid and Leonard. He said, "See if it isn't possible to make French toast for breakfast in the morning."

Enid smiled. "His favorite?" she guessed.

Seto nodded, looking distracted. The problem was quelled, his brother was safe and asleep, and his mind seemed to be going straight back into hyper-drive. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, smoothed out the front, and looked toward the front door.

"I'm sorry about this," Leonard said again, scratching his chin. "I know this must be embarrassing for you, but…"

Seto looked over at the man, acknowledging his existence for the first time since his arrival. He looked legitimately puzzled, an expression Enid had never seen on his sharp face before. "…Why would this embarrass me?" he asked in a flat, neutral, "I-don't-understand-you" tone of voice.

A beat of silence, and Leonard beamed. "…No reason. None at all."

Seto quirked an eyebrow at the man.

He opened the front door and strode out into the night without another word.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I can't help but think that I've written this scene before, and it's likely been in this particular project. Something about Seto waking his brother from a nightmare resonates rather strongly with me, to the point that I felt the need to explore it from another perspective.<strong>_

_** I feel like I haven't really managed to flesh out the Brinkleys in writing nearly as much as I have in my head, and this was an attempt to fix that particular issue. I'm not sure how well I did, but I do hope that you enjoyed this installment, in spite of its similar tone to another chapter.**_

_** See you next time, later on in the week.**_

_** I'm getting back onboard with this one; I promise.**_


	23. That Little Piece of Heaven

_**I remember days when summer vacation meant I had more time on my hands. It really doesn't seem like that's true this year, and it's making it hard to focus on the things I want to do.**_

_** What I want to do, is figure out my characters. I've given plenty of time in this project to Seto and Mokuba and the gang, and I've given some time to the Brinkleys. But the McKinley family has been a staple in my stories since "Back from the Dead," and with this chapter I wanted to look a little deeper into how they work.**_

_** Thus, we have this.**_

_** Seto makes an appearance, but it's secondary. Something I never thought I'd say.**_

* * *

><p>They were happy.<p>

For Detective McKinley, this wasn't particularly out of character. But for Seto Kaiba it was an astronomical event. When he said something that caused the both of them to laugh, it wouldn't have been entirely out of the question for the earth itself to do a double-take. It was frightening enough for the young executive to take a day off; for him to _enjoy _it was a sign of the Apocalypse.

"Tea?" Katie McKinley asked, setting a steaming mug in front of Seto on the living room table.

"Thank you," Seto said, offering a ghost of a smile and nodding to her.

Were there words to their conversation? None that anyone knew. Katie stayed out of the room, leaving her father and his friend to their own devices. A year ago, she would have accosted Seto Kaiba with questions and platitudes, falling all over herself to impress him. Now, she understood. She had matured.

"What's going on in there?" Renie Eubank asked as Katie stepped back into the hall. "War council? Lawsuit? They plotting an assassination?"

"Looks like they're just having a good time."

Renie fell into step beside Katie as they started to talk. Through the hall, through the back door, across the yard, along the street. "Does it ever strike you as surreal that your dad's friends with the biggest celebrity in the city?" Renie asked.

"Sometimes," Katie said, "but I think I've acclimated. It's not as glamorous as I might've thought. We're not suddenly getting invited to swanky parties and riding limousines everywhere. Daddy had the wondrous fortune of befriending the _least _showy billionaire on the planet."

"Have you _seen _that man's car?"

Katie laughed. "You know what I mean. We don't go to parties because he doesn't _throw _any. Figures my dad would relate to a workaholic. Mom says they've got the strangest, most authentic relationship she's ever seen."

Renie nodded. "Sounds about right."

They continued walking in silence. It was a longstanding tradition for them. Katie thought there weren't many people who knew this neighborhood better than she and Renie did. They'd spent their entire childhood exploring Domino City—at least, as much of it as their parents would allow.

They passed a comic shop, and a sudden memory shot up into Katie's mind. Fourteen, dressed in brand new clothes and sporting the most expensive shoes she'd ever owned. The barest of imperfections in every inch of her clothing had been purged, and her hair had been styled just so. She'd been at the door, hand reaching out to turn the knob, when her mother had stopped her.

"Katie, hold on. Zac's babysitter can't make it tonight. She's got food poisoning. We're going to need you to watch him."

"…Mom. _Are you serious? _Do you _know _how long I've been waiting for today? Do you _know _how long I've been saving my money for this? He's going to be at this shop _today only! _It's the first time he's _ever_ shown up at a local tournament!"

Grace Jennifer McKinley had simply crossed her arms and looked stern. "Katie, you know we can't cancel, and you know we can't leave your brother here by himself. We'll pay you double, okay? Just keep an eye on him. You can see Seto Kaiba next time."

"And if there _isn't _a next time?"

"Katie, please don't do this."

"Oh, sure, _you _get to look long-suffering like _you're _the one making a sacrifice here! _You _get to go out to dinner and see a play! _I _get to flake out on something I've been waiting for, something _you gave me permission to go to, _since August! Where the hell do _you_ get off looking like _I'm _the bad guy?"

"Hey. Kate? You okay?"

Katie flinched violently, turned around and saw Renie looking at her, concerned. She ran a hand across her face and shook her head. "I'm just…reminiscing, I think. It's nothing. Hey…do you remember the time he was a judge at a _Magic & Wizards _tournament at The Vine?" Katie didn't have to tell Renie who "he" was. She was already nodding. "What was it like?"

Renie raised an eyebrow. "Interesting enough, I guess. Never did get into the game, so I didn't pay much attention. But he gave a speech at the end of it, when he presented the prize to the winner. Talked about how this game was the forefront of recreational competition, and how it was more than flashy artwork and numbers. He said we had to remember the spirit of what this _meant. _How it's about pitting yourself against another person, pushing yourself to be better than you are, pushing yourself to live up to the game's expectations."

Katie smiled wistfully. "That sounds like him."

"…You didn't get to go to that, did you?" Renie asked, remembering. "We'd had it all planned. We were gonna tell him about the website and ask if he wanted to be involved in it. We had _rehearsals _and everything. Then your parents had to go and ask you to…babysit…"

She stopped, looking stricken.

The smile stayed on Katie's face, but it felt like it was burning. She wiped her dry eyes with the back of her hand as though expecting them to be wet. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to the street and kept walking.

"Hey…you a'right?"

"I'm fine."

"Isn't today—"

"I'm fine."

By the time they made it back to the house, Seto was leaving. He still looked happy—perhaps as happy as he ever had—at the door as he was bidding her parents goodbye, but Katie saw the pleasant expression slough from his face as soon as he turned away, and it was hard to tell if his expression now was conflicted and bitter or homicidally angry. Either way, she gave the man a wide berth as he stalked down the sidewalk toward his car.

Darren and Jen told the girls that they were headed to bed not long after that. "Sorry 'bout this, girl, but I got an appointment at 7 tomorrow morning. I gotta get home and get everything together." Renie searched Katie's face. "You sure you're okay?"

Katie nodded, heading into the living room. "I'm good. Don't worry about me. Go, get things ready. I'll see you later."

She heard the door open, close, and Renie's car start up and pull away.

Katie stopped at the liquor cabinet behind the couch, and stared at it for a while. She was more heavily tempted to open it and drown out the noise in her head than she'd ever been before, legal drinking age be damned, but stopped short when she saw the bottle of her father's favorite Scotch. The day before, when she'd been dusting, Katie had seen that bottle nearly full.

It was almost empty.

Understanding shot through her like a lightning bolt.

She turned away, found the mantle, and her eyes scrambled across it like a drowning person for a lifejacket until she found it. A little 5" by 7" frame housing a picture of a little boy—blond and beaming—dressed so proudly in a school soccer uniform, standing in this very room with his chest out like he owned the world.

In a trance, Katie pulled a pocketknife from her jeans and stepped up to that picture. She found a tiny notch cut into the frame and cut a second one just underneath it, teeth clenched so tightly she thought they might crack, as the tears began to flow.

"…Happy birthday, Ikey."

* * *

><p><em><strong>The introduction of Darren was an ill-fated revision of "Twist of Fate," but he became a person, and we learned of his family, in "Back from the Dead." Since then the McKinleys have made appearances in "Paved with Good Intentions" and "Cult of the Dragon King," and I'm sure they'll be in other projects as well.<strong>_

_** Something I did in "Back from the Dead" of which I'm not particularly proud, was to give Darren a son just to kill him off. Some of you may recall that Seto met Darren (mild spoiler if you haven't read BftD; I'm not sure I can recommend it in good conscience anymore, though, so it may not matter) right after Mokuba goes missing, and Seto makes the comment that Darren doesn't understand what it's like to have a child missing. A mistake for someone of Seto's genius, but I blame myself more than I blame him; Darren comes back by saying that his son, Isaac, was murdered.**_

_** This was a cheap ploy for Seto's sympathy, and I dislike it immensely.**_

_** But instead of pretending it never happened, I decided to roll with it. Embrace it, and explore the dynamic of a family tragedy. Yes, a child's death would affect Darren, but what about the other members of his family? What of the boy's mother? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?**_

_** Sister?**_

_**So I wrote this to explore.**_


	24. You Made Your Message Clear

_**I have about a week-and-a-half before school starts. I say it like it's what I've been doing for the past few years, but this is a step up for me, as I'm heading to a "real" college. As I intend to teach at the community college from which I recently graduated, I need a Master's Degree from the university to which I'm transferring.**_

_** Wish me luck. I have a feeling that I'm going to need it.**_

_** While I salvage the final 11 days of my summer vacation (I think that's what it's called), take a look into the mirror of yesterday, and see a glimpse of life at the Kaiba Estate while everyone's favorite tyrant lived there.**_

_** No, not Seto. At least, not **_**just **_**Seto.**_

* * *

><p>Someone else would wonder how the heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire, dressed in a custom-tailored suit and wearing an expression that would have been more at home on an executioner, could sit cross-legged on the floor and play a board game.<p>

For the five-year-old, largely forgotten _second _son of Kaiba Gozaburo, it was perfectly natural. Why _wouldn't _Niisama play a game? Niisama played whole lots of games. He even _made _them. So Mokuba just played, strategizing as much as he could to make sure that he lasted a long time. Of course, he'd never _beat _his brother, who was best at _everything. _But he could make it hard, at least.

They both wore identical expressions of dedicated concentration. For Mokuba, it was expected and thus didn't look out of place in the slightest. For Seto, it looked almost absurd. He could have been sitting at a war council. He rolled the die like a professional gambler, and moved his game-piece as though setting it in the wrong place would cause a nuclear explosion.

"Bocchama."

He didn't flinch. He raised his head slowly and, without looking back, said, "I specifically requested that I _not _be disturbed, Diamun."

Gozaburo's squat, trollish butler stood in the doorway to Mokuba's room. "Yes, yes, I'm sure you have plenty of time to be wasting. Unfortunately for you, your esteemed father requires your presence."

"It is not your place to quantify the value of my time, Diamun," Seto replied icily, rising smoothly to his feet. Mokuba, looking heartbroken, stared up at his brother. "I'm sorry, Mokuba. We'll have to finish this later."

"But…but…you said we would finish this time! You _said!"_

"I know, Mokuba, and I'm sorry," Seto repeated.

"Unlike some of us, your brother has _work _to be doi—" Diamun began.

Seto cut him off: "I do not recall asking for your assistance."

"…I was simply doing my part, Bocchama."

"Let me rephrase: I do not recall giving you permission to insult my brother."

Diamun blinked. "…Permission?"

"Mokuba is Otousama's responsibility, and mine. Whether _he _has delegated that responsibility to you is irrelevant, as I have not. Since you are so concerned with wasted time, I would suggest you not argue the point. I do not care to listen to your opinion, and I doubt Otousama would appreciate the delay."

Seeming to chew on his lower lip, his beady black eyes smoldering, Diamun turned on his heel. "Shall we?"

Seto turned to leave.

"Niisama!" Mokuba was tugging on his brother's hand. "Wait! It's…it's almost done! Can't we…?"

"No, Mokuba," Seto said, stern now. "We'll play later."

He took his hand away.

Mokuba's eyes widened, and he subconsciously hit the "adorable" switch in his mind. "But…but—I love you…?"

Seto straightened at this last-ditch effort. Stared at the boy for a moment. Diamun sighed with disgust. The elder Kaiba brother knelt down in front of his tiny sibling, and the smallest of smiles graced his normally severe face. "I love you, too, Mokuba," he whispered. "I promise, we'll play later. Tonight, before bed. Okay? How's that?"

Sniffling, Mokuba nodded. Looking hopeful, he held out his arms.

Seto's smile widened as he pulled the black-haired boy into a hug.

Before standing again, Seto kissed his brother's forehead. "I'm sorry," he said again. He stood, turned, and left Mokuba's room, shutting the door with a sweep of his hand. Diamun, looking murderous, growled at him: "Do I have _permission _to bring you to your father?"

Seto's cobalt eyes narrowed. "I saw the mark on his hand, Diamun."

"Mark?"

"I had hoped that I was clear the _first_ time I warned you that I would not tolerate it," Seto snarled. "I was evidently unclear. Reprimand him if you must. Punish him if you must." His face gave a spasm as though it were physically painful to say this. "That is your prerogative. That is the role Otousama has given you."

He stepped closer to the short, balding little man, whose anger was wavering as the full fury of a Kaiba met his charge's face. The butler stumbled back a step.

"But if you touch him again…with _anything, _for _any _reason…I swear on everything I hold sacred that you will die for it." He leaned in close and whispered: "Do we understand each other?"

Diamun drew in a deep, shuddering breath, feeling honest fear for the first time in decades.

"…We do, Seto-sama."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I have mentioned previously that Seto's most dangerous quality (one of them) is his temper. As shown here, he was beginning to cultivate it as young as fourteen. I think it first started manifesting just after his mother's death; it was underneath the surface his entire life, wanting to lash out at the people who bullied him when he was little, but I don't think it was until he ran into his adoptive father that he was driven to the point where he would let it out.<strong>_

_** And when Seto does something, he does it full-tilt. An angry Seto is a homicidal Seto.**_

_** Even before he took over Kaiba-Corp.**_


	25. I Know it's Just Adrenaline

_**This is the twenty-fifth chapter of "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes." That seems to me a rather important milestone. To you reading this, who gave this story a chance, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'm trying to juggle a bunch of different things right now, and it's been difficult to keep it up lately. And now, starting next week, my schedule's going to be even more strapped, as I'm starting classes at university.**_

_** But it's always fun to work on this project, and while I know that I haven't managed to hold up my original schedule, I hope I may be forgiven. Let's look at this milestone by considering another, shall we?**_

_** Enjoy, and thank you again.**_

* * *

><p>He was present for every duel in which his brother ever participated. From his first comic shop tournament at fourteen to his final exhibition match at nineteen, Mokuba watched the evolution of the greatest <em>Magic &amp; Wizards <em>player to ever grace the game.

While it was true that Yugi Mutou had dethroned his rival, and Seto never had managed to defeat him, Mokuba didn't attribute that to Yugi's skill. He attributed it to dumb luck. Joey Wheeler was the so-called "lucky" duelist when it came to the professional circuit, but Yugi's style of play didn't differentiate itself very much from his friend's. Yugi simply knew more about the game. It didn't change the fact that he gambled nearly every match he played.

Seto had layers upon layers of strategy. When one tactic didn't work, he had six others woven into his deck that he could use. Yugi himself had said once, "I'm not sure if I can really say that I won half of the matches I've played. It's more like the cards were playing themselves, and I just happened to be standing at their end of the arena." That could never be said about Seto.

Mokuba remembered the first match Seto had ever won. Still the prized heir of Kaiba Gozaburo, he hadn't been able to announce his arrival. He'd used an alias, he'd worn a disguise, and nobody ever did find out that the one-hit-wonder performance of August Bentzer was actually the precursor to what could only be called a hostile takeover.

The next time Seto entered a tournament, it was as the Chief Executive Officer of the newly-christened Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation. Mokuba still remembered with vivid clarity just how differently Seto played as himself. As Bentzer, he had been quiet and innocuous. As a Kaiba, he was a thunderstorm. He was the progenitor of the over-the-top drama that every professional duelist after him would eventually employ. It became a tradition.

For Mokuba, it was a dream come true. Finally, he saw his big brother enjoying himself. Finally, he saw his big brother truly in his element. Seto might have been a genius, and he might have been a scientist, but here Mokuba had finally understood what he truly was at his core: a performer.

Seto announced his arrival at every match with unabashed arrogance and intoxicating energy. He was unstoppable. The moment he stepped into the spotlight, he was ten feet tall, and everyone knew where he was. All eyes were on him, all thoughts were with him. And he knew it. And he loved it.

"The ultimate rock star of the geek subculture," one magazine had called him. "He takes up the cause of a group so often miscast as basement-dwellers and antisocial misfits with a level of angry devotion that never fails to entertain."

Mokuba was happy to count Yugi Mutou among his friends. He was a down-to-earth, happy, fundamentally _good _person. But for one thing, one inexorably treacherous thing, the younger Kaiba brother would never forgive him.

In taking Seto's title from him, and in showing him the truth behind his own motives for playing the game, Yugi Mutou had crushed the elder Kaiba's dreams. Gone was the angry devotion. The Seto Kaiba who wore studded trench coats and shouted at the crowd, the Seto Kaiba who basked in the applause and reveled in the fame, had been replaced.

Now Seto Kaiba was devoted to his work and didn't give a damn about his reputation. Now Seto Kaiba wore expensive suits and pristinely polished dress shoes. Now Seto Kaiba gave to charities and funded scholarships. Now Seto Kaiba tucked his brother in at night, helped him with his homework, built amusement parks and revolutionized orphanages. Now Seto Kaiba told his brother how much he loved him, and how proud he was of him, and volunteered to help on field trips just to spend time with him.

Seto Kaiba had outgrown the immature, arrogant rock star of the geek subculture. And in the long run, that was a good thing.

Except he never had fun anymore.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seto has always been a realist to me. Maybe a bit on the pessimistic side of the spectrum, but still grounded in reality. That says, to me, that Yami's continued lectures on why Seto plays the game (for power, for influence, on the backbone of hatred, et cetera) after each defeat would eventually resonate with the pragmatic side of him, and he would eventually stop playing all together. <strong>_

_** He's never been much into dueling in my stories, and this is the primary reason why. Another reason is that I can't figure out how to write out a duel in written form in a fashion that would be entertaining for me to write, and worthwhile for you to read. But largely, it comes down to this: he got over it.**_

_** And I think most of that comes from Yami. And the fact that he could never win.**_

_** No matter what.**_

_** That has to be disheartening.**_


	26. His Mother's Miracle

_**Over the years, I've built my own history for the YGO universe. I suppose it's the natural order of things, for a "creative" fan to do such things. I suppose I've always done this. When I have a question about a story, about a character or a plot point or a setting, and don't get an answer from the author…I tend to answer it myself.**_

_**That, I think, is the true fun of fanfiction. If you don't know something, or don't like something, or want to see what happens when you change something, about a series you love…you can do it.**_

_**I've done it. At the least, I've tried.**_

_**Case in point…**_

* * *

><p>The ironic part of it was, at first he was normal. The man about whom people wrote papers and articles and even a handful of books—in spite of the fact that he was only twenty years old—had been normal once.<p>

Not in the classic sense of the word; he'd always had an incredible memory, and he'd always been advanced. He'd always been calm and collected, relatively speaking. He'd been a quiet boy, content to read and play board games against himself, enthralled with his education and determined to get the most out of it.

He'd always been a genius.

But he'd been normal, too. He would wait on baited breath for his mother to pick him up, and he would hug her with all the strength his thin arms could muster, and he would always be at his most animated as he told her what he'd learned that day.

Yagami Yuki would always listen patiently as her son bombarded her with information, the vast majority of which couldn't have come from his teacher—he'd done the research on his own during recess in the library—and for a wonder she could follow it. She would ask him questions to clarify certain points, and he would grin as he told her the answer like it was some kind of trivia competition.

She would hug him, ruffle his hair, and call him her little miracle.

Neither of them saw Yagami Kohaku very much during the week. He worked two jobs. Out the door by 6 AM, back home by 7 PM. Just in time to join the family for dinner, sit down with his wife for a while, stare blankly at his son's latest perfect score, and fall into an exhausted sleep. Yuki wasn't fond of the situation, but she knew what her husband could be. Knew what he could do. He was a provider, and he was horrible when it came to social niceties. He was awkward, gruff, blunt. Almost apathetic.

And if he ever felt insulted, his anger was palpable.

She kept him sane. She kept him grounded. Kohaku didn't really know what to do with the boy who shared his blood and his name. He would smile when Seto came home with straight As, and he would talk about him with his coworkers, wondering where the boy got that kind of brain from, 'cuz it sure as hell wasn't from him. He was proud of the boy. And in his own way, he loved the boy. But he couldn't express it for the life of him, no matter how often he tried.

And the problem was, Seto was too smart not to notice just _how _bad his father was when he tried.

Kohaku left Yuki to handle their progeny, because he didn't know what else to do. It was this, perhaps more than anything, that made Seto Yagami normal. He loved his mother, and he missed his father. He revered his mother, and he respected his father.

The ironic part of it was, the very things that made him normal contributed to what made him into such an anomaly. Because he loved his mother, he was crushed when she died. And because he missed his father, he was heartbroken when _he _died. But because he revered his mother, he strove to live in her image. And because he respected his father, he refused to let those lessons fade.

"Do you hate your father?" Detective Darren McKinley asked, one day when they sat outside the Kaiba-Corp building, watching Mokuba give a demonstration to Rebecca Hawkins and Connor Brinkley on how to walk like a ninja—why he was doing this, nobody bothered to ask.

"No," Seto said flatly.

Darren raised an eyebrow, looking legitimately surprised. "No? You, the Misanthrope of the Century?"

It was a joke…but only slightly. Seto didn't rise to the bait, nor did he seem affronted by it. He simply gestured to the children and said, "Regardless of anything I think of the man…I can't deny his involvement. Without him, I…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but Darren could read it in his face.

_Without him, I wouldn't have my little miracle._


	27. I'm Leaving This Place

_**To say that the transition from community college to university has been a strained one for me would be a cataclysmic understatement. After classes, reading, "professional obligations," and homework, I often have just enough energy to turn off the light and navigate my way to wherever I might happen to sleep.**_

_**I haven't given up on the idea of updating this story regularly, but the sad fact of the matter is that this semester in particular has proven very time-intensive. Next semester, I've opted to focus only on my major, which should loosen up both my schedule and provide me with more time and energy to do what I love.**_

_**That said, it's another understatement to say that this chapter's been a long time in the making, and I hope its length—certainly not the longest chapter in this series, but longer than most—will make up at least partially for the immense wait.**_

_**I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the Kaibas' lives, from the perspective of another individual that we all should find rather familiar.**_

* * *

><p>It took a long time for anyone to…acclimate to dealing with Seto Kaiba. He seemed utterly fascinated with convincing people to hate him; it was like his body didn't run on oxygen, but controversy.<p>

Yugi Mutou wasn't some saintly pacifist able to see past any flaw to the decent human being underneath the baggage. He, too, had once thought the worst of the man. His friends were of the opinion that he'd always disagreed with them on the subject of the teenage billionaire, when in fact he'd simply been disillusioned first.

He could still remember the tipping point.

It must have been…three years ago? Yugi had been in the park one afternoon, sitting at a bench and _trying _to study. And failing spectacularly. He'd seen Kaiba across a field of pine shavings at another bench, scratching at a notepad with a fountain pen. Of course, Yugi had been drawn to the sight, and his brain—entirely uninterested in the periodic table—fixated on the question: what would the richest man in the city be doing at a public park?

Then Yugi saw little Mokuba, then eight years old, looking distraught and near tears as he ran up to his brother. "N-Niisama…" he'd mumbled, staring down at the ground. "This…bigger kid. He said…he said that…" He stumbled through a few more failed sentences before fidgeting his way into silence.

Kaiba looked up from his notes and raised an eyebrow. "Think through your sentence and try again," he instructed, quietly but firmly. Looking back now, Yugi knew what the elder Kaiba had been doing. At the time, he'd thought the young executive was just being cruel for the sake of it.

Mokuba took a deep breath and said, "…This other kid…I was playing and…he said to get out of his way. 'Cuz he said he had to practice. I said we could practice together, but…but he said he wasn't gonna. He said _real _soccer's not a game for nerds. He…said I should get lost."

To say that Kaiba had looked uninterested would have been an understatement. He said, with that same soft, steady tone of voice: "And what about this upsets you, Mokuba?" Paradoxically, he sounded half-sympathetic, half-affronted.

"It's not true!"

"What's not true?"

"…Huh?"

"_What's _not true?" Kaiba repeated. "That soccer isn't a game for nerds? Or that you're a nerd?"

"Well…both!"

"Does it bother you that he said those things? Or does it bother you that he rejected your offer and bullied you off of the field?"

"Both!"

"So what should you do about it?"

Yugi supposed that he'd been thinking, at the time, of Kaiba as any other big brother. The sort of person who should jump at the chance to protect his little siblings. It hadn't quite come through yet, what was going on.

In response to his brother's latest question, Mokuba looked like he was being confronted by an exam he wasn't prepared to take. Finally, with a fidget and a grimace, he said, "…Stand up for myself."

"That's right." Kaiba nodded curtly.

Mokuba kicked at the concrete, sighed, and slumped away looking dejected.. Yugi, an only child and always fascinated at the idea of having siblings, thought rather grumpily that if Mokuba had been _his _kid brother, he most certainly wouldn't have sent the poor boy away like that just to get some peace and quiet. He most certainly hadn't expected what had come next.

About fifteen minutes later, Mokuba came back to his brother, shuffling along like he was embarrassed but with a certain gleam in his eyes that said he wasn't…not really. The older boy, who _did _look embarrassed, stumbled along next to two fuming adults who must have been his parents.

Kaiba didn't even bother to look at them until the boy's father, a burly-looking man with a biker's beard and anger rolling off of him in waves that were palpable enough for Yugi—sitting more than fifteen feet away—to feel uncomfortable, belted out a rather boisterous greeting: "You this brat's father?"

"I am no one's father," Kaiba said smoothly, still not looking up from his paperwork. "I am, however, uninterested in speaking to you if you intend to conduct yourself this way. If you could step away so that your shadow no longer obscures my vision, it would be appreciated."

"He's my…brother," Mokuba said.

"That right, smart-ass?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice," Kaiba said, _still _not acknowledging anyone with his gaze. It struck Yugi at this point that he'd never heard his former rival quite this calm. In stark contrast to the pseudo-biker and his quietly-raging wife/girlfriend, Kaiba was entirely unruffled. But, Yugi noted with some surprise, he didn't sound bored anymore. Just…quiet. Even polite.

Though his personal experience with the man told Yugi that the politeness was probably meant as mockery.

"Don't talk to me like I'm a five-year-old, you son of a bitch!"

_Stop acting like one, _Yugi thought, and for a moment he _knew _that Kaiba was going to say it. He had to. The line was right there, so easy, so simple. He _had _to say it.

Kaiba slipped his paperwork into a briefcase at his side, placed his pen into a pocket, and rose smoothly to his feet. As it turned out, he was a good two inches taller than the biker, and the difference in poise, attitude, and perhaps most pointedly in dress, was striking.

"If you have a concern with my brother's behavior," Kaiba said, so low and nonchalantly threatening that Yugi went as stiff as a cornered rabbit in the presence of a wolf, "then I am extremely interested to hear it. Please, sit here and tell me." He gestured to the bench. "However, if your only interest is to vent, that is another matter entirely. Continue to raise your voice to me, and use profane language in my brother's presence, and _we _will have a problem. I can assure you quite confidently that you will not enjoy that."

Each word was meticulously chosen, smoothly delivered, and _sharp. _But not a single one felt out of place.

"Listen to you, all high and mighty 'cuz you're in a fancy suit!" the woman all but screeched, seemingly unable to contain herself anymore. "That little monster of yours _assaulted _our son!"

"Ma'am," said Kaiba, as sickeningly sweet and condescending as he would have been speaking to a four-year-old, "please. Lower your voice. I can hear you quite well." Kaiba glanced at his brother, raising a thin eyebrow. "Mokuba," he snapped, suddenly stern and commanding. The black-haired boy flinched. "What happened here?"

"Ronnie was just minding his own business!" the woman snarled, cutting Mokuba off before he could begin to reply. "And _this _little delin—"

"Ma'am." Kaiba's voice now was a whip-crack in the dry Autumn air. "I would be most appreciative of your point of view on this matter. At this specific point in time, however, I am more concerned with my brother's behavior as _he _views it. If you would be so kind, allow him to speak."

It should have sounded like a threat. The part of Yugi that still thought badly of Seto Kaiba _thought _it sounded like a threat. But it wasn't. It really wasn't. It was firm, and it was unwavering. But it wasn't a threat. Nonetheless, Ronnie's mother seemed to take it as one, as she bristled and seemed to bloat up like a bullfrog.

"You implied I should stand up for myself," Mokuba said slowly, carefully. "I stood up for myself. I went back to the playground, told him I would share the field with him but I wasn't gonna leave. He tried to threaten me, grabbed my shirt. I don't like people touching me. I…made him let go."

Kaiba didn't react. Yugi wondered what he was thinking; _he _thought Mokuba's behavior sounded perfectly reasonable, but the stone-faced glare that Kaiba was leveling on the boy made it look as though he were entirely unimpressed.

Yugi noticed with a blink that _Mokuba's _language now mirrored his brother's: meticulous, careful, and smooth. A far cry from how he'd looked when he'd come to his brother fifteen minutes earlier. It was like…like when he thought he might be protected, Mokuba was mousy and embarrassed; but when it was clear that he was on his own, he was cool and collected.

Yugi wondered if that was the whole point.

Kaiba blatantly ignored Ronnie's parents, turning instead to the boy himself. "…Did you touch my brother?" he asked, and again...it sounded like it should have been a threat, but it wasn't.

"Hey! Smart guy! Leave my son out of—"

"Be _quiet, _sir," Kaiba commanded.

"Don't you tell _me _to be quiet!" The biker reeled back and sent his fist _cracking _against Kaiba's face. The impact of the blow echoed in the air, and time stopped for a long moment as Kaiba slowly, so slowly, turned his head back to regard the man with the same cold, steel-flinted glare that Yugi had seen far too often. He felt his entire body go stiff again as he waited for the storm. He was sure that Kaiba was about to break the man's wrist, or pull a gun, or start making phone calls.

He didn't.

"Come with me, Mokuba," Kaiba said slowly. "We're leaving."

Mokuba, pale and wide-eyed, stared at his brother. "N-Niisama…?"

Kaiba turned on a heel. "Now."

The young executive stalked away, his polished dress shoes clicking on the concrete. The biker, clearly having expected a fight, was so flabbergasted by the _lack _of confrontation that he simply stared.

"H-Hey…" Ronnie's mother called weakly. "Where…?"

Kaiba stopped walking, as Mokuba picked the man's briefcase off the bench and started trotting up to him. Without turning, Kaiba said, "I have given you both multiple chances to have an adult conversation with me about this confrontation. You both have chosen to squander them. You are no longer my problem."

"Don't you…write me off…you arrogant son of a…" Ronnie's father breathed, sounding winded with surprise.

"Goodbye."

The grim finality of that last word sounded like a door being slammed, more damning than any curse. Yugi watched the Kaiba brothers as they left the park, unable to fully reconcile what he'd just seen, and why it conflicted with every notion of behavior he'd ever had about his rival.

Kaiba had a hand on his brother's shoulder now, and was whispering to him. His entire demeanor had changed; he was no longer stern and irate. He was calm and friendly.

Yugi realized, at that precise moment, that when it came to interacting with Seto Kaiba…it was never arrogance. It was a simple case of high standards, and whether or not you could meet them. Ronnie and his parents, left dejected and offended with no idea what to do with themselves, could not.

Mokuba could.

And that…pretty much summed it all up.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Every so often, Seto actually manages to act like a brother. More often than not in my work, he's acting in his capacity as a maternal figure; nurturing, and guiding. This chapter encompasses neither of these roles. This chapter is perhaps one of the first times I've worked with him acting in the capacity of a father.<strong>_

_**I've perhaps opted for a rather theatrical way to encompass this. A lot of the parental figures in my work fill one of two facets: in short, they're either good parents or horrible ones. I don't often go down the murky road in between. Is this a failing on my part? Yes. But it shapes my work. Any parent I write who is not a "good" one, ends up looking something like a caricature of the worst kind imaginable.**_

_**That said, there's a reason for this. We all know, I think, that Seto hates to be touched. Why is this? Based on the core series, I don't think there's any real indication that he would. But it's a natural conclusion considering his history, I think, and here it comes into play. With Seto's confrontational, competitive nature, it stands to reason that if anyone challenges him physically, as happened here, he would retaliate rather violently.**_

_**So why didn't he?**_

_**Because he was acting like a father. He had to teach Mokuba something. Most pointedly: standing up for yourself doesn't mean punching and kicking and screaming when someone attacks you. It means refusing to let people treat you like garbage. Seto could have easily knocked the guy flat. He didn't, because he didn't have to.**_

_**But he did have to prove a point. And in that, I think he succeeded.**_


	28. Let Them Be Little

_**I've long tried to use the exercise of taking real-life events and turning them into pieces of writing. For whatever reason, these characters are the only ones with whom I can actually do that. Which might be a good thing.**_

_** This chapter was initially inspired by a family dinner last night.**_

_** It eventually turned into…something else entirely.**_

* * *

><p>"Hi, there. Aren't you just the most precious little thing? Are you dancing? Hm? You like the music? Yeah…you do, don't you?" The young woman's heart was melting as she spoke. "He's adorable," she said.<p>

She directed this at Kohaku, who smiled, but it was Seto who responded: "Thank you, ma'am. Wave hello, Mokie." The boy took hold of his infant sibling's tiny wrist and made him wave at the woman, who returned the gesture with a girlish giggle. "May we have a booster seat, please?" Seto asked, adjusting his grip on Mokuba.

"Of course." She stepped away. "I'll be right back, sweetie," she cooed, as Mokuba was now waving of his own accord, which amounted to flailing his arms around and might have just meant that he wanted to be let down.

It was a rarity in the extreme for the Yagami family to go out to a sit-down restaurant for dinner. More often than not, if Seto didn't find some sort of box meal in the pantry to feed himself and his brother, their father would bring home fast food from one of the numerous places on his ride home.

The waitress came back with chips and salsa, and asked if they would like anything to drink. Kohaku declined, saying that he was fine with water; after an inquisitive glance at his father, to which Kohaku gave a short nod, Seto ordered lemonade.

"What about this little angel?" she asked, gesturing to Mokuba as Seto settled him into the booster chair she'd provided. "What would you like, little man?"

"He likes apple juice," Seto said. "Or milk."

"We can do apple juice, not a problem."

"Hear that, Mokie?" Seto whispered gently. "You're going to get some juice."

Mokuba said something that might have been "juice," but if so it was a barely-recognizable garble. Seto's smile warmed, and he kissed the boy's forehead before sitting down. The waitress all but swooned.

She took their orders—a taco salad for Kohaku, an enchilada dinner for Seto, and a plate of rice and beans for Mokuba—and headed off to cover the rest of her section, leaving the Yagamis to their own devices. Seto made small talk with his father, barely paying attention to what either of them were saying, until he finally figured out how he wanted to ask his question.

"…This girl in my class…she invited me to her birthday party this weekend."

Kohaku raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

Seto fidgeted. With other adults, he was cool and confident, some said rude. With his father, he always felt flustered. "I was wondering if…I could go. Maybe…maybe we could…get someone to watch Mokie?"

Kohaku's face gave a slight spasm. "Valery's in Chicago, visiting family."

Seto flinched as if he'd been struck. "Well…maybe…could _you _maybe…watch him? I-I could…get everything together for you. It would only be…for a few hours."

"…I'm sorry, son. I have to work. My hours have been pretty bad lately, and I can't take time off. You should see if this girl would mind you bringing your brother with you."

Seto's shoulders slumped. He had a feeling that that wasn't the real reason. But there was no point in arguing anymore.

"…Sure."

"I'm sorry, Seto."

"Uh-huh."

Seto didn't speak for the rest of the evening, except to quietly thank their waitress as he stood up to follow Kohaku out to the parking lot, holding little Mokuba against his side.

* * *

><p>"Niisama? Can I ask you something?"<p>

Seto Kaiba turned his eyes away from Don Collinsworth and locked them on his brother, who was standing in the doorway looking like he was about to leap into a pool filled with ravenous piranha. "Come in, Mokuba."

The black-haired boy shuffled into the room and shut the door behind him, eyes flitting to Collinsworth. "Um…well…I…you know, Rebecca Hawkins?"

"Of course," Seto prompted gently, raising an eyebrow.

"She's…her grandpa's taking her to see…she's going to a concert this weekend and…and she…was wondering…if I wanted to…go."

He kept staring at Collinsworth.

"Saturday or Sunday?" Seto asked.

"Saturday."

"When?"

"It…the opening act comes on at…three."

Collinsworth cleared his throat. "Sir. We've a meeting with the rep from Bioware that starts at two-thirty this Saturday."

"Does she have a spare ticket," Seto continued, as though his employee wasn't in the room anymore, "or will you be buying your own?"

"They're…kind of expensive. I would…have to get one."

"How much?"

"Sir."

"Um…about…sixty-seven dollars."

"Sir, meeting? Two-thirty? One of the most popular developers in the country?"

"Are you willing to put your allowance this month toward paying for this ticket?"

Mokuba nodded. "Yes, Niisama."

"Sir!" Collinsworth snarled. "This sort of deal isn't something we can just walk into blindly! Your brother was the one who insisted we go into this! He needs to be present!"

Seto still didn't look at the man, keeping his eyes on Mokuba's pale, all but terrified face. "That's fine," he said. "Go ahead. Have fun with your friend. And go ahead and get yourselves some souvenirs, if you like. Now go find Copeland. I want you home and working on your homework."

Mokuba bowed. "…Y-Yes, Niisama. Thank you!"

He bolted from the room.

Don Collinsworth looked like he was going to explode. "Mister Kaiba! What sort of game do you think you're—"

"Shut up."

"…I'm sorry, _what?"_

Seto rose smoothly to his feet. "If you're going to reprimand me, the first thing I want to see is the legal paperwork giving _you _guardianship over my brother. Until I see that, I am _entirely _uninterested in hearing what _you _think he should be doing."

"I may not be your brother's guardian," Collinsworth shot back, "but until he turns eighteen, Mister Kaiba works in _my _department, under _my _supervision. We agreed, he and I, some time ago that he would be giving a presentation on Saturday the 19th, from two-thirty PM until three-fifteen PM. And if he intends to shirk that agreement for the sake of a _concert, _then I have no use for him on my team."

Seto's eyes narrowed. "…Do you think me so ungodly _stupid _as to not know that?" he hissed. Collinsworth looked surprised. "Do you think me so irresponsible that I would allow Mokuba to step out of an obligation purely for the sake of something so superficial?"

"…Apparently you are, sir."

Seto grimaced. "Listen to me, Donald Collinsworth. Very closely, as I _will not_ repeat myself. The last time my brother asked me to do something with which I personally disagreed, was three years ago. When he asked to take part in my Battle City tournament. The reason that I decided to allow it was because the _previous _time he made a similar request was another two years prior to that. Mokuba makes requests of me so rarely that it is _hardly _my intention to deny him if there is any conceivable way to make it work. _I _will attend your conference."

"You believe that to be the right way to raise him, then," Collinsworth said, sounding skeptical and more than a little offended.

"What _I _believe is that my brother's psychological welfare is far more important than your rather pathetic ploy for authority." Collinsworth opened his mouth, but Seto cut him off. "Do you recall what happened to my brother two months ago?"

Collinsworth stared openly. "…Yes."

"Well, then. Don't you think it _might _be a decent idea to allow him to spend a weekend with a friend, rather than put him into a conference room filled with men three times his age looking for any and every excuse to tear him apart because goddamn it, they've _earned_ their positions and they _won't stand for _working under someone too young to shave?"

Collinsworth opened his mouth again. "I…I-I…"

Seto swept past the man. "That child is _my _responsibility. He has _always _been my responsibility. Do not deign to put yourself in that position, because you can be _damned _sure that I have earned it." He turned to look over his shoulder, blue eyes blazing. "I _will not_ deny my brother a weekend with a friend for _you. _Are we clear, Donald Collinsworth?"

"…Yes, sir. Quite clear."

And that was the end of it.

Donald Collinsworth resigned from his position at the Kaiba Electronic Gaming Corporation a week later. When asked by Roland Ackerman why he seemed so unconcerned about having the head of his development team suddenly quit, Seto Kaiba said:

"I decided a long time ago that I would never deny my brother anything he wanted, unless I had good reason to do so. This was not good reason."

"The young master _did _agree to attend that conference."

"I really don't care _what _the young master agreed to do. _I _didn't."

"Don't you think it would have been a good lesson to teach him? That work obligations take precedence over personal matters?"

Seto snorted derisively. "If that were _true, _I might."

"Isn't it?"

"For me, yes. For you, yes. For Donald Collinsworth, yes." Seto's eyes turned cold. "For a boy who nearly had his head blown off by a semi-automatic pistol eight weeks ago, for a boy who pushes himself far too much already in order to earn my approval, for a boy who's somehow gotten it into his head that _I _am a good role model…absolutely not."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm never sure what to do about Mokuba's involvement in KaibaCorp's affairs. Aren't there child labor laws? Ah, well. Anime logic. Part of the fun of fiction is tweaking the rules of reality to see what happens.<strong>_

_** The major thing I take from this chapter is that even when I try to be light and happy, I end up taking a dark turn. I used to think that it was particular to these characters, but I'm starting to think that it's a habit that runs across all of my projects.**_

_** What does that say about me?**_


	29. I Don't Wanna Let Them Hypnotize Me

**_Incoming wall of text:_**

_**Last year, during my hiatus from writing, I went to a clinic in the hopes of handling a bout with depression. I was prescribed what I initially thought was a simple antidepressant; turns out, depending on the source of information to which you look, it was either an antipsychotic, a mood stabilizer, or a sleep aid. I needed, and was looking for, none of these.**_

_** After three weeks, realizing that I was sleeping far too much, I quit the drug and decided to work out my issues on my own. I've never really trusted antidepressants, and it felt better to trust my instincts and stay true to my beliefs, even if I felt like my life sucked. Since then, I've graduated from community college with three AA degrees, have transferred to a university in pursuit of a Master's Degree in English, with which I plan to teach, and have secured a position as a Congressional intern with a local office. I feel much better about pretty much everything in my life, since then.**_

_** All this is to say, I've thought a lot about depression and its related issues; I've thought a lot about "Big Pharma," as the pharmaceutical industry is typically called 'round these parts. And I've wondered how Seto would look at these same issues.**_

_** This chapter came out of these musings, as well as what I've heard in a Child Mental Health course I'm currently about to finish.**_

* * *

><p>"All I'm saying is that he needs to <em>consider<em> it!"

"He won't go for it. You're wasting your breath."

Helen Aarden was a hard person. Her mind was honed to a razor's edge, and her tongue was sharper. She and Seto Kaiba clashed horrifically every time they spoke to each other. Which, paradoxically, was precisely the reason Seto found her valuable.

Usually, Roland Ackerman let them have their rather explosive debates without comment. On this subject, however, he felt it necessary to weigh in. Seeing the way that she was glaring at him—as though she were an ancient gorgon, wondering why he hadn't turned to stone yet—he decided to expound on his response and said: "You know very well that Master Kaiba doesn't base his opinions on a person's worth on whether or not he, or she, agrees with him. Which is why you still have a job. But this is a case where you'd do well to tread lightly. Master Kaiba is objective, cool and logical, on all subjects…except his brother."

Helen sneered. "If he cared about the boy as much as he'd like us all to believe, he'd strive to be _more _objective and logical with Mokuba than he is with anything else."

"I'm sure that a part of him agrees with you," Roland said, "but I'm serious, Helen. Don't rock the boat this time. It's too sensitive a subject, and he's liable to take it precisely the wrong way."

"I don't fear Mister Kaiba's opinion of me, Roland," Helen snapped. "If my expressing myself is grounds for dismissal, I don't want to work here. Thank you for your concern," she sounded so insincere that it was almost insulting, "but save it for someone else."

Roland sighed, shook his head, and waved dismissively in the direction of his employer's office. "Very well, then. Your funeral will be lavish. I know a very talented florist in the area. He can provide the decorations."

Helen shook her head. Knocking sharply on the door, she looked ready to break it down with sheer willpower if she didn't get the answer she wanted. "Enter," came a particularly irate voice from behind the barrier.

They entered.

Helen Aarden didn't believe in preamble. Before Seto even looked up from the folder in his hands, she said: "I have some concerns with the vice-president's behavior, and the way you've been responding to it."

Seto set the folder down and his cobalt gaze rose like a guillotine. "What behavior, and which responses?" he asked, slowly and methodically. Any number of his other employees would have bolted from the room at that look; Helen seemed further enflamed by it.

"I understand fully that his age, and his academic responsibilities, prohibit Mokuba from attending to his full position. However, he has been rather grossly neglecting those responsibilities to which he _does _lay claim. You seem fully content to let him. This concerns me a great deal, and I intend to know what you plan to do about it."

Seto considered the woman for a long moment before he said: "Nothing. Your concern is not mine. If that's all you came here to say, this conversation is over."

"Is Mokuba an employee at this company, or isn't he?"

"He is."

"And has he, or has he not, recovered adequately from his recent near-death experience?"

As Roland had predicted, the sheer _mechanic _way Helen referred to the von Schroeder incident struck a serious chord with Seto, who was suddenly fully engaged. He leaned forward, a fever growing in his eyes. "That, Miss Aarden, would depend entirely on how you define the rather arbitrary label of 'adequate.'"

"Is he fit to return to his responsibilities at this company, or isn't he?" Helen asked.

"He is not."

"By your estimation, or a professional's?"

"I attribute no importance to a 'professional' opinion on this matter, but in the name of completeness…both."

"Then why is he here?" There was a sick kind of fascination running through Roland as he watched the exchange, thinking that in some twisted sort of way, they were both enjoying this. The last time Roland had seen this kind of focus on Seto's face had been his final _Magic & Wizards _match with Yugi Mutou, some three years ago.

"He is at a stage where staying at home is a detriment to his recovery," Seto said. He was choosing his words meticulously, as though in court speaking to a judge. "I surmised that a return to his previous responsibilities would be a healthy step forward, and so I have permitted him to return to work on a probationary basis while he familiarizes himself with the workload expected of him at his new school. If it is determined that he cannot devote himself equally to both, then I will have him focus entirely on his studies for the time being."

"Be that as it may," Helen said, "his behavior since his return has been unacceptable. I was given to understand that this corporation ran on high standards. Is it your intention to keep the vice-president involved in any projects while his performance is so sub-par, to say nothing of his attendance?"

"If you intended to say nothing of his attendance, you would have said nothing," Seto said. "Furthermore, I have a very real problem with your not discussing this _issue _of yours with Mokuba. He is, after all, directly under your purview."

"I thought you didn't like having adults bringing their concerns about his behavior to him directly. Did you not say that?"

"Yes. I _also _said that this rule of mine pertained to his behavior _outside _of a work-environment context, and that his _performance_ in regards to Kaiba-Corp's projects was the primary concern of his direct supervisor. That would be you, Miss Aarden."

"Then I—"

_"However," _Seto cut her off, "his _health _is the primary concern of his legal guardian. That would be me. I have read your reports, and I have seen his work the past two weeks. It has, indeed, been shoddy compared to his track record. I infer from this that he should be placed into a position more suited to his current mental state. I will not force him to return to his previous level to the point that it will harm him, simply to accommodate you."

"If you're so concerned about his health, when do you intend to _do _something about it?"

"Do not presume to know what I have and haven't done in the name of my brother's welfare, Aarden," Seto growled, dropping all pretense of formality.

"Have you even _considered _that he might be suffering from a mental health problem? You refuse to put him in therapy, you won't allow him to take medication, so what _are _you doing?"

Seto closed his eyes for a long moment, and when he opened them again, he looked directly at Roland for a moment. Then he locked eyes with Helen again. "Everything else."

"Why are you so rampantly biased against therapy and medication?"

Realization dawned on Seto's face. _"This_ is your real question. _This_ is why you're here. You think my brother should be medicated."

"He's showing every symptom in the book for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder."

A blind person could have seen the disgust pass over Seto's face. "Predicated by the belief that exhibiting stress as a result of a traumatic event is a _disorder_. One to which I attach roughly as much validity as the existence of the Easter Bunny." Seto stood. "He's reacting to his circumstances precisely the same way any healthy person would: badly. Whatever right you deign to have to speak to me about the psychological welfare of my brother is irrelevant. If his performance is such that you think he should be formally terminated, that is your prerogative. I will fight the decision, and I will win, but go ahead and fire him if it will make you feel better. Now get out."

"Well, aren't _you_ just Billy McBadass?" Helen snapped. "An old-west cowboy in a thousand-dollar suit, don't take shit from _nobody, _by God. Apparently you _are _still a child."

"Fifty-thousand," Seto said.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm wearing a _fifty_-thousand-dollar suit," Seto said, in a deadpan tone. "I'm also uninterested in engaging in this discussion if you intend to turn it into a pissing contest."

"That's a lie, or you wouldn't be mincing my words. What you're doing to that boy treads dangerously on the line of medical neglect. Whether you believe in PTSD or not, he _has _it. And whatever you're doing to fix it isn't working, if the way he's been acting lately is any indication. I was under the impression that you were intelligent and objective. I was under the impression that you were dedicated to the vice-president's welfare, and that you would put forth an honest effort to care for him. The way you're acting right now doesn't prove either assumption."

Seto waited a moment, gauging, before he reached into his desk and removed a thin hardbound book, called _Childhood Mental Health Disorders, _filled with color-coded tabs marking certain pages. Another, much thicker, book: _The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders,_ similarly filled. And another: _Lonely, Sad, and Angry: How to Help Your Unhappy Child_. A multitude of other books in this vein followed the first three, covering topics from childhood depression and post-traumatic stress to holistic medicine, pharmacological interventions, and psychosocial therapy. He reached into another drawer and pulled out a three-ring binder filled with loose-leaf sheets. After it came a thick spiral-bound notebook.

Seto tossed these unceremoniously onto his desk and looked at Helen Aarden. "Since you're so concerned, here. This is my research. Consider yourself on paid leave as of right now. Your new job is to read this, and tell me what I should do about Mokuba. I'll pay you out of my own pocket. Study this, analyze it, find sources of your own, come to a conclusion, and bring it back to me."

Helen stared. "Are you…are you serious?"

"I never joke about my brother's health, Miss Aarden." Seto's anger seemed to have not just disappeared, but died. As Helen looked from the various materials back up to the man's face, she saw for the first time just how tired he looked. "I don't care if your entire motive is just to prove me wrong. Please. Prove me wrong. Prove to me that there's a better option."

He wasn't being flippant this time. He was desperate.

Helen Aarden analyzed the situation for a long moment before she finally squared her shoulders and leveled a clean, clear gaze on her employer.

"I'll get started right away, sir."

* * *

><p>"I have to ask you a question, Master Kaiba."<p>

Seto glanced at his assistant and quirked an eyebrow. "Which is…?"

"There are so many adverse effects attached to psychiatric medication, especially in children, that there's no particular reason for me to question your decision to keep Young Master Mokuba off of it," Roland said. "But in every study I've ever seen, therapy is almost always the clear winner because even if it doesn't work, there aren't any downsides. So I have to ask…why _haven't _you pursued therapy for your brother?"

Seto looked at Roland for a long time before he finally answered. As was typical when he was giving a "real" answer—that was, when he wasn't using any of his typical intimidation strategies—it was quick, curt, and unapologetic.

"I can't."

"Why?" Roland asked. "And please don't tell me that you don't have it in you."

"I'm speaking literally, Roland. I can't." Seto sighed, drumming his fingers on his desk. "The crux of psychosocial intervention hinges on one thing: honesty. Any therapist whose degree is worth the gold-stamped paper on which it was printed would insist on total honesty. What do you think a therapist would ask him, Roland? He, or she, would examine his life, his thoughts, his feelings. Were I a licensed psychologist, I would ask him how his other abductions—Crawford, Ishtar, Amelda—have affected him. What is he going to say, Roland? That Crawford stole his soul and put it into a trading card? That Ishtar could control people's minds with a hunk of gold from Egypt? That Amelda had a glowing green hexagram on his forehead?"

Roland frowned. "…You worry that he'll be diagnosed as mentally ill."

"Roland, by all standards I was ever taught, he _is! _He believes that Yugi Mutou's body was the vessel for a king who died almost five-thousand years ago! He believes that I am a reincarnated priest! He thinks it's possible to resurrect the dead using a computer system my predecessor kept hidden in the basement!"

"Don't you think that means he _should _be helped?" Roland asked, in a low, steady tone of voice that did nothing to calm the panic rising in Seto's face.

"Helped by _what,_ Roland? A padded room? A cocktail of antipsychotics and mood stabilizers? Mokuba isn't stupid. He knows well and good that he can't be completely honest with anybody about what he thinks has happened to him. He barely brings up the subject with _me. _He'd hold back anything from his past involving magic or any other fringe theory he believes. No matter who the therapist was, he'd never come to trust him or her to the point where he'd talk about those things. He'd be worried that people would blame me for it, and that we would be separated. 'For his own good.'"

Roland slipped his hands into the pockets of his slacks, leaning back against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. He had had a front-row seat to some of the crazier goings-on in the Kaibas' lives. He remembered Malik Ishtar and his siblings all too clearly, and had long harbored a suspicion that _he _needed psychological help himself.

"You worry that he would be taken from you."

"I don't _care _how this would affect _me!" _Seto all but exploded, shooting from his chair and looking like he was ready to fling his desk across the room. "Goddamn it, man, how is therapy going to help my brother if he has to walk on _fucking _eggshells?"

Roland found that he had no answer to that.

"If Mokuba wants to believe the rhetoric he's been taught by Mutou and his cronies," Seto said, reining in his sudden fury, "who the holy _fuck _are we to tell him he's wrong? Rational, level-headed adults? People who 'grew out' of such nonsense? We're not any better. We just moved on to believing in organic food and homeopathy. We don't believe in Santa Claus, but we believe in God. We don't believe in unicorns, but we believe in Bigfoot. We don't believe in Tutankhamun's Curse, but we believe extraterrestrials built the Egyptian pyramids. I have as much tolerance for 'adult' society as I ever have, Roland. The vast majority of adults are judgmental, biased, hypocritical sheep. I'm not going to let any of _them _tell my brother that he's 'mentally ill.'"

A long, tense silence.

"…Okay. Fair enough. I simply wanted to make sure you'd thought this through, sir." Roland held up his hands. "I had to make sure this wasn't a simple bias on your part. That your reasoning wasn't selfish. Part of my job is keeping your brother safe. That means from you, as well as anyone else."

Seto smirked, looking amused in spite of himself.

"Good."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seto is a sounding board for a rather intense, extreme form of skepticism. He trusts no one, and nothing. Well, almost. While I try to portray him as the intelligent, capable young man that he is, there are a number of belief systems I believe he holds that go far beyond objective logic.<strong>_

_** That isn't to say I think he's a quack; nonetheless, I should point out that the notions I've covered in this chapter are not my own. They're my interpretations of how these characters would view them.**_

_** I've made the mistake before of attributing my beliefs to my characters. I don't intend to do it again. If I am to do these characters, and any other characters, any justice at all, I have to remember that they are living, breathing people.**_

_** Just because they're fictional doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to them.**_

_** It's my job as a writer to listen to them. The less I say in any given scene, the better. They aren't my medium of expression. I am theirs.**_


	30. Live with it, but I Don't Get It

_**For the 30**__**th**__** chapter of this particular work, I had hoped for something longer. But this particular section, I think, doesn't really need much else. It's a simple idea, and sometimes simple means short.**_

_**Considering my outlook on writing in general, it isn't fair to me to look at a short piece of work and think it needs more just for the sake of being longer. That isn't how writing works. The story, or in this case the scenario, will dictate how long it needs to be**__**.**_

* * *

><p>"<em><strong>To the world, you may be just one person; but to one person, you might be the world."<strong>_

**- Brandi Snyder**

**Discuss the meaning of this quote, and relate it to your own life (5-10 sentences).**

* * *

><p>People call me famous. I don't really do anything that makes me famous. I'm just a person. I'm just going to school, playing videogames, and sometimes I help my brother at work.<p>

My brother tells me sometimes, usually when he's really tired, that I'm all that keeps him going. He says I'm the reason he does all the complicated stuff he does at work. A lot of times, he doesn't say it. I can just tell. I'm not bragging. Sometimes, he'll be working, and he'll stop and look at a locket I gave him. It's got a picture of me in it. I have the same locket, with a picture of him. I know what he's doing when he looks at that locket. He's reminding himself.

I think that's what the quote means, for him. It doesn't mean you obsess over somebody and put them on a pedestal. But they're what keeps you on your feet. I'm not the whole world to my brother, but I think he's trying to change the world for me.

For me, it's not really fair. There's no way to compare my brother to the world. If the whole world outside our house disappeared, I could still be okay, kind of. But if my big brother disappeared, the whole world wouldn't make up for it. That's what it means to me.

* * *

><p>"Ever get the feeling they're codependent?"<p>

Joanna Lorwell raised an eyebrow. "You know, I'd _really _appreciate it if you didn't snoop around my students' homework." She snatched the sheet of paper back. "Didn't your mother ever teach you how to mind your own business?"

"Are you kidding? Of course not." Jennie smirked. "C'mon, look at this thing. Tell me it's not…I dunno, strange. I mean, when he says he wouldn't mind if the whole world disappeared, so long as his brother was still there…I think he means it. Like, everybody else could die from some disease straight out of a Stephen King novel, and he'd be okay."

"You're the one who insists on telling me stories about them," Joanna replied without looking at her sister, checking her desk for a pen. "If _you'd _gone through that many near-death experiences before you hit puberty, and the same person saved your life every time, _you'd _be clingy, too."

"This isn't just clingy, sis. This is psychologically damaging."

"Of course it is." Joanna looked at the sheet of paper. "But how else were they going to go about healing from so many horrible things? You're the expert on this stuff. You told _me _about it. Of course they depend on each other. I think it's sweet."

"Really?" Jennie asked, and now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow. "I think it's sad."

* * *

><p><em><strong>All too often, I look at the Kaibas' lives and I feel warm inside. Their relationship is very powerful, and I always look at it in a positive light. I always have, and I'm sure I always will. But that doesn't mean there can't be a negative way of looking at it. With this piece, I tried to explore that.<strong>_


	31. I'm Hollow, Hollow and Faceless

_**This is probably going to be my last time discussing Mokuba's performance at work for a while. It's an important topic, owing to his recent trauma, but I've looked at it from a number of angles now. So I think I'm going to be switching gears after this one. That's the glory of a collection like this.**_

_**That said…this last one is a bit different.**_

_**We all have rituals. Sometimes, we might not even be aware of them. But each of us have certain things that we do at certain times. Maybe it's a holiday that we always spend with family. Maybe it's that weekend we always spend with friends. Maybe it's that table at a restaurant that we always use. Whatever rituals we have, they're important to us. Some of them, we might share with others.**_

_**Some of them are private.**_

* * *

><p>"I'm not saying I don't understand that they have engagements outside of work," Vincent Zika said, "but it <em>has <em>been kind of excessive lately. Mister Kaiba's been leaving early, coming in late, and the vice-president…I mean, come on, Roland. Even you have to admit this is getting…irresponsible."

"I don't have to admit anything," Roland all but growled. Helen Aarden, who was sitting in the backseat, started to speak. Roland cut her off: "I don't want to hear another word on this subject. You are accompanying me in order to see, and understand, something of particular importance. I will not discuss the performances of the Kaiba brothers. They are _my _concern. Now _shut up."_

Roland's silver Ford Ranger pulled into the parking lot of a small, nondescript Christian church. He got out of the vehicle without another word, leaving Vincent and Helen to follow, giving each other incredulous, exasperated looks. All three of them were dressed for business, and so they did not look the slightest bit out of place as they stepped inside. Roland nodded to someone, presumably a worker or volunteer, as he made his way down a short hallway and opened a set of double-doors. Still he did not speak.

Roland led the other two into a compact cemetery. The mood instantly became somber, as both Vincent and Helen realized what was going on. After only walking a short way, Roland stopped cold. He gestured for his companions to do the same.

In front of them, sitting cross-legged in front of a small, unobtrusive grave-marker, was Mokuba Kaiba. He was dressed in a rumpled black suit. He was talking animatedly, but it was impossible to mistake the somber, barely-contained grief behind the wooden smile on his face.

He was holding something delicately in his thin hands, which were lying in his lap.

His brother stood behind him, dressed similarly in stark black, hands in his pockets and his eyes far off in the distance. There was no grief in his face; only a calm sort of irritation. His eyes flicked over to Roland and the others, but he did not speak.

There was a warning in his cobalt eyes, however. Roland needn't have gestured for Vincent or Helen to stay where they were anymore. Those eyes were all the barrier needed. Those eyes said that anyone who dared interrupt this ritual would soon have a grave-marker of their own.

"…school," Mokuba was saying. "Her name is Rebecca. She's been really nice to me. You didn't meet her. Niisama didn't invite her to Battle City, but I bet she would've been a finalist if she'd gone. She's really good." The black-haired boy gave a nervous sort of chuckle that almost sounded like a sob. "She said…she'd give me lessons, if I wanted."

"Oh, God…" Helen whispered.

Vincent closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"Kaiba Gozaburo had one biological child," Roland murmured softly. "His trueborn heir, he liked to say. The boy's name was Noa. Some years ago, Master Kaiba and Young Master Mokuba discovered this. Master Kaiba never took much notice. Young Master Mokuba…did. Every year, on the anniversary of Noa's death, they take a personal day. Master Kaiba says nothing. He lets his brother do the talking."

"Did you like school?" Mokuba asked. "I bet you had private tutors and stuff like that, huh? Niisama did. Huh, Niisama?" He looked up at his brother, who gave a curt nod. Mokuba turned back to the marker. "Your favorite subject was prob'ly Math, huh? Maybe Science. I like English. My old school called it Language Arts. What did you guys call it? I bet you read all sorts of old books. Shakespeare and stuff."

There was no particular rhyme nor reason to anything the young Kaiba was saying. He seemed to be spilling out everything he'd ever thought onto that grave. He talked about school for a while longer; his friends; he mentioned Yugi Mutou and Joey Wheeler. He mentioned Tristan Taylor. He gave an extremely clipped version of what had happened in Siegfried von Schroeder's mansion, and it was here that Seto made his only visible reaction: he tensed, his jaw clenched, and he drew in a sharp breath. Mokuba seemed to notice, because he quickly changed the subject.

Twenty minutes passed this way. Mokuba didn't seem to notice that anyone else was listening to his monologue, which grew more and more emotional as he kept going. By the time Seto finally knelt down and put a hand on his brother's shoulder, Mokuba was crying openly.

Seto gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze, whispered something, and Mokuba nodded with a sniff. He laid the object in his lap—which turned out to be a white lily—onto the marker. Both Kaibas stood. Mokuba bit his lower lip before he said, "…Bye, Noa. Take care of your dad…wherever he is. Let him know…let him know it's okay." He drew in a deep breath. "…I love you."

Seto lifted one hand out of a pocket, and Mokuba took hold of it as they began to walk back toward the church. When Mokuba saw the three people watching, a look of instantly recognizable betrayal met his eyes, and his face reddened.

Roland bowed his head. "…Pardon the intrusion, sirs."

Seto closed his eyes. "Go on inside and wait for me, little one. I'll catch up."

Mokuba licked his lips nervously, but he nodded. "Yes, Niisama."

And he left.

Once the door shut behind the younger Kaiba brother, the elder cut Roland off before he could speak again: "I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear a word out of any of you. Not an explanation, not an apology, not a single platitude or condemnation. I want you to go back to whatever vehicle led you here, I want you to go home, and I want you to think long and hard on whether invading my brother's privacy is worth your jobs. I don't care one fraction of a _fucking _iota what you think about this situation or how much it's detracting from our work. Overstep your boundaries one more time and I swear by whatever God to whom you direct your prayers at night, I'll make the rest of your waking days into living nightmares. Do I make myself _absolutely_ clear?"

They didn't answer, not even by nodding their heads. There was no mistaking the look on Seto's face. This was no idle threat. So they parted to let him pass, and turned around to leave themselves, wondering when they would regain the courage to approach him again.

It was ridiculous, they told themselves. Even Roland told himself that it was absolutely ludicrous to be frightened of a nineteen-year-old. It was offensive to be threatened by a teenager, and abhorrent to realize they believed it. They had earned their positions, they told themselves; their concerns were valid; they were right. They _knew _they were right.

But all they could remember were those eyes. That pyroclasm of disgusted fury.

And little Mokuba, choking back tears, saying "I love you" to a boy he'd never met.


	32. In Our Children's Lullaby

_**Happy New Year! **_

_**After so much angst and anger and depression, I thought it time to take a lighter tone with everything. Ironically, this chapter was inspired by a rather dark piece of television (an episode of Criminal Minds), but…we won't talk about that.**_

_**The talk of rituals in the previous chapter got me thinking: what kind of ritual might the Kaibas have when they're separated? This chapter attempts to shed some light on one of them.**_

_**Let's begin, shall we?**_

* * *

><p>"All right, and…we'll wrap it up there for the night. Next week, you'll all level up, so take a look through your books and figure out what your new encounter power's going to be." Yugi Mutou never looked quite so accomplished than when he was done leading a roleplaying session. His eyes were practically glowing as he watched his players gathering up their dice and pencils and notes.<p>

Mokuba was first to stand up from the table.

"Questions, comments, concerns, compliments, condemnations?" Yugi railed off, folding the paper map he'd had in front of him the entire night. "Highlights? C'mon, people, give me _something."_

"Sorry, Yugi," the young Kaiba said. "I have to make a phone call."

Tristan started talking, and soon he and Yugi were in the midst of a rules argument. Knowing that this would last well into the evening, Joey opted to follow Mokuba down the hall. "Don't mind me, gotta use the bathroom," the blond said when Mokuba turned to look oddly at him. This seemed to be a satisfactory answer; Mokuba slipped into the guest bedroom without comment.

By the time Joey had finished up in the restroom—washing his hands and rearranging medicine bottles, mostly—it was a good six minutes later. As he passed by the room where Mokuba was engaged in some secret meeting, Joey caught bits and pieces of the conversation; Mokuba seemed to be relaying every moment of the game with the gusto of a Shakespearean actor.

"Who's he talking to, anyway?" Yugi asked when Joey reentered the front room.

"Kaiba," the blond said without hesitation. "Sounds like he had fun. Tellin' the Big Cheese all about that skill challenge in the Spiderlord's lair. By the way, that new rule o' yours can suck my appendage."

Yugi chuckled. "Rules are rules, Ulogg."

"What-_eva. _You're just makin' shit up now, is whatcher doin'. I ain't forgettin' this, next time _I _run a game. Bitch."

Yugi grinned. "Sounds fun. Bring it."

The rest of the evening passed by without any real incident. Tristan spent the next two hours attempting to study; Joey challenged Yugi to a _Mortal Kombat _tournament, then challenged him to a real-life version when he lost. It was typical Game Night at the Mutou residence, except the youngest member of their band of social misfits was nowhere to be found. Nobody thought too much of this; it was commonplace whenever Kaiba was out of town. They all knew better than to interrupt a Kaiba Ritual by now, and the before-bed phone call was particularly sacred.

By the time midnight rolled around, Joey figured he should look in on the kid. The more time went on, the more Kaiba seemed to expect the blond to take over the Big Brother role for Mokuba whenever necessary. Not that Joey much minded; Mokuba was a good kid, and Joey'd had plenty of practice at it, anyway. It was pretty much second-nature. Besides, the younger Kaiba brother was the oldest eleven-year-old in Domino City, and watching him didn't mean watching _him _so much as it meant watching everyone _around _him.

The light was still on in the guest bedroom, and Mokuba was still dressed in jeans and a t-shirt; he hadn't even taken off his shoes. But he was sound asleep, his cellular phone tucked against his left ear, half his body hanging over the edge of the bed. Joey, remembering any number of weekend evenings when he'd caught Serenity in much the same position—with some sugar-and-rainbows girly cartoon blaring out of her pink princess TV—couldn't help but crack a smile.

There was no television in this room, and yet Joey heard something.

As he approached the sleeping boy, Joey realized that whatever he was hearing was coming from the phone. He lifted up Mokuba's legs and straightened him out so that he lay fully on the bed without danger of falling off, and tugged off Mokuba's sneakers and unceremoniously tossed them into a corner.

"Look like a drunk frat boy, kid," the blond murmured. "Which…pretty much means you look like a frat boy."

He was about to turn out the lights and shut the door.

Then he realized with a jolt just _what _he was hearing out of Mokuba's phone: singing.

Joey turned around, and inched closer. He leaned down, and damned if he wasn't right: Kaiba was goddamn _singing _on the other end of the line:

"…_Doko e itta…ano yama koete sato e itta. Sato no miyage ni, nani morouta…den den taiko ni shou no fue…"_

Joey Wheeler wasn't exactly an expert on languages, even his own, but he'd seen enough anime to recognize Japanese when he heard it.

The song had a strangely haunting sound to it, almost like Kaiba's voice was some kind of forlorn ghost, lamenting. But perhaps the most shocking part of it, aside from the fact that _Kaiba was fucking singing, _was how _different _Kaiba sounded when he did it. His speaking voice was sharp, deep and gravelly, like shards of glass grinding themselves into a fine powder; at least, that's how Joey thought of it.

His singing voice was still deep, and still had some underlying sharpness to it, but it was smooth. It flowed easily, and the blond wondered for a moment if he'd ever taken classes or something. It was...a nice sound. Almost hypnotizing.

"_Nen nen korori yo okorori yo. Boya wa yoi ko da...Nen ne shina…"_

Mokuba had a contented little smile playing across his face, and it struck Joey that this was the first time he'd seen the younger Kaiba brother looking…at peace, for lack of a less corny way of putting it, ever since…well, hell, ever since Duelist Kingdom, now that he thought back on it.

Joey smiled, feeling something burning back behind his eyes, and he reached over and lifted the phone from Mokuba's ear, careful not to wake him. The blond put the device to his own ear. Kaiba wasn't singing anymore.

"He's asleep, man. Out like a light."

Silence. Then,

"_Thank you."_

A click, then more silence.

Joey flipped the phone shut, set it on the end table, turned out the lights, and shut the door behind him. He stepped back into the front room, where Yugi was building a castle out of _Magic & Wizards _cards, and Tristan was shooting him angry looks every few seconds.

"What's up, Joe?" Tristan asked. "You look weird."

Joey shrugged.

"Nothin'."

* * *

><p><strong><em>As in previous chapters, the game Yugi and the others were playing was the 4th edition of Dungeons &amp; Dragons, published by Wizards of the Coast.<em>**

_**I believe that I've mentioned before that one of the biggest divergences from canon that I take with my work is that Domino City is located in the US. However, Seto and Mokuba are still of Japanese descent, and their parents immigrated there before Seto was born.**_

_**I thought a while ago about the idea of Seto singing Mokuba a lullaby to help him sleep; it's a cute image, isn't it? But I wondered what sort of lullaby he might opt to use; the traditional "baby in the treetop" stuff from the States didn't really sit right with me.**_

_**I thought a traditional Japanese song would fit much better; so I opted to use "Edo no Komoriuta," or "Edo Lullaby," something I figure Seto's mother would have sung to him. The full lyrics go something like this:**_

"_**Nen nen korori yo, okorori yo. Boya wa yoi ko da. Nen ne shina. Boya no omori wa, doko e itta. Ano yama koete sato e itta. Sato no miyage ni nani morouta. Den den taiko ni shou no fue."**_

_**Translated into English, we're looking at something like this:**_

"_**Sleep my baby, sleep my lovely; close your eyes, my baby. You are such a good baby. Sleep my darling, sleep. Where's your nanny? Where's she gone? Over the mountains, she has traveled, to her parents' home. As a souvenir from her hometown, tell me what she gave you, darling. A small rattle drum and a small bamboo flute."**_

_**I make no guarantees in regards to the transliteration or the translation; I used Wikipedia and Youtube. But it paints a nice picture, doesn't it?**_

_**Until next time.**_


	33. You're Just a Shape in the Stars

_**I think a writer knows when he's hit on something special when the first thing he or she thinks of, when a spark of inspiration hits, is a particular project. In my most recent case, I thought of this project.**_

_** I know I'm not updating nearly as often as I set out to do, and I do apologize for that. But I'm still working on it, and have no intention of stopping. This project is a lot of fun, and it keeps me engaged in the "Paved with Good Intentions" version of the YGO universe. Considering just how frustrating the main story can be, that's a seriously good thing.**_

_** In any case, this chapter was inspired by a couple of things. One, a reading assignment from one of my courses. Two…well, you'll see.**_

* * *

><p>Kaiba-shachou was angry.<p>

They could all tell, without thinking. Even the greenest of employees knew better than to cross him today. When he was still, he looked ready to pounce. His fingers twitched in sequence with his right eye, and it was reaching past nervous tic and into "Hey, he might have a stroke" territory. When he walked, his usual sweeping stride was only a hitch slower than an outright sprint, and his voice…well, people talked about whip-cracks. Those people were idiots.

When Kaiba-shachou was angry, his voice became a sentient _presence. _

A miasma of negativity hung about the man's head, and he looked like he was actively searching for someone to make that one, tiny step over the line just so he'd have an excuse to explode. The absolute calm on Roland Ackerman's face was actually insulting; the man was so blissfully unaware of his employer's ill will that he may as well have been on his way to a movie, for all the concern he showed as he strolled behind Kaiba-shachou down the hall.

Roland was thinking about something Mokuba had told him some time before. "Have you ever tried to stump him?" the boy had asked, and Roland hadn't understood. "Like, asked him a question you _knew _he wouldn't know the answer to. He _does. _He knows everything."

"I highly doubt he knows _everything, _little one," Roland had said.

"Uh-huh!" Mokuba had insisted. "I asked him once: 'What's the official title for Magus in _Chrono Trigger?'"_

"…I'm going to assume that's a videogame. Of course he would know that."

"Do you know what he said? He said, 'According to which civilization, from which time period, and in which translation?' Okay, sure, I could see him knowing _one _answer, maybe he watched me play it or something, but when was the last time he had enough free time to _research _a game that came out in 1995?"

"I'm still not convinced that's entirely out of the ordinary, Young Master."

"Oh, yeah? Do you know how much money it would cost to build a full-sized Eva Unit from _Evangelion?"_

"…No."

"Niisama does! How 'bout the number of doors in that white hallway from the second _Matrix _movie?"

"No."

"Niisama knows! And he didn't even _watch _that movie!"

"Dare I ask how you've come across this information?"

"It's kind of like a game. When Niisama comes to pick me up from school, or when we're driving someplace or whatever, I'll ask him things. Like a trivia contest. I've been trying to catch him for, like, two years now. He knows _everything. _He knows how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop, and it's _not _three."

Roland couldn't help but grin whenever he thought of the Kaiba brothers together, the younger peppering the elder with entirely random questions until finally getting fed up and stomping out of the room in a huff. He also couldn't help but think that Mokuba would do well to _not _try keeping up his little trivia tradition today; his brother was in the entirely wrong mood for it.

Mokuba tended to be understanding when Seto was in a bad mood, but Roland knew that this game was something special. It was so hard to convince Seto Kaiba to loosen up and do _anything _that didn't directly pertain to productivity, and these questions Mokuba kept digging for were the closest the poor boy ever got to _playing _with his big brother on a regular basis anymore. Regardless of why, if Seto responded negatively today, which he was bound to do, it would hurt. No matter why, no matter how inconsequential it might seem on the surface, it would be a betrayal.

Lord only knew that Mokuba Kaiba put up with enough betrayal already.

And so, when Roland followed his employer into a conference room and saw Mokuba sitting there surrounded by homework, his jaw clenched. And when the boy looked up at them with a sunny little smile on his face, Roland flinched.

"Hey, Niisama," Mokuba said, clearly prefacing a question, and Roland closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. "Can entropy ever be reversed?"

Roland blinked.

Stared.

It was so random, so thoroughly absurd, that Roland heard a record scratching in his head. Daring to glance at Seto, he saw that the elder Kaiba brother had stopped dead, as well. His cobalt eyes had widened, his mouth had opened slightly, his face a blank slate of numb confusion.

Then Roland's entire understanding of the known world collapsed in upon itself as Seto Kaiba started laughing.

It was a good laugh, an honest laugh, deep and booming and lovely. For the first time in several years, Roland actually saw _youth _in his employer's face, and very nearly cried at the sight. He glanced at Mokuba, who looked surprised but delighted at his brother's reaction to his seemingly random inquiry. The black-haired boy glanced quizzically back at Roland, who gave a half-shrug.

Seto was still chuckling, every trace of anger and annoyance banished to the far reaches of the universe, when he said:

"There is insufficient data for a meaningful answer."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Chrono Trigger is a Japanese role-playing game put out by Squaresoft. Oft-toted as one of the best games for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System, it's certainly my favorite; not only was it one of the first games in the genre that I ever played, it—and specifically the character Mokuba mentioned, Magus—kick-started my interest in fanfiction. So really, it's the reason I'm here.<strong>_

_** Evangelion is, of course, a reference to "Neon Genesis Evangelion," again originally released in 1995 by Gainax, the pinnacle of everything good (and bad) about mecha anime. Yes. Mokuba watched it. Are you really all that surprised?**_

_** I don't think I need to mention much about the Matrix sequels that hasn't already been covered ad nauseum by the internet at large. Let's move on, shall we?**_

_** The first inspiration for this chapter was "The Last Question," a short story written by Isaac Asimov. The second was a desire to see what it would be like if Seto laughed. The two things naturally coalesced into this chapter, and it proved two things: one, Mokuba can make his brother feel better no matter what's been going on; and two, Seto **_**is **_**a nerd, after all. And that makes him awesome.**_

_** See you next time, everyone.**_


	34. I'll Always Love You

_**It's all too easy to think of the Kaibas' past and feel kind of depressed. We think of the orphanage, we think of Gozaburo. We think of godparents who didn't really give a crap about them, and we think about the fact that their parents died too soon.**_

_** What's harder to remember is that there were people throughout that time that loved them, and cared about them. Seto might be a bitter, cynical, skeptical sumbitch, and he might have good reason to be, but there are people in his past that he doesn't hate. While his life hasn't been anything resembling easy, I try to remember the silver linings in all those storm clouds every once in a while.**_

_** That's what this chapter is about.**_

_** So remember with them, won't you?**_

* * *

><p>She called Kaiba-Corp on the 13th, but since a new project was launching four days from then, the message didn't get to Seto's desk until the 20th. He walked into his office that morning with his usual stern disposition, until he saw the note someone had left for him.<p>

He read it quickly, with the air of someone who isn't particularly interested; then he stopped, and read it again. He picked up his phone, checked the spelling of the name. He asked for more details, his breath coming quicker and quicker as he did so. He couldn't have explained what had him in this state, even if someone had had the gall to ask.

He hung up the phone, snatched up the note along with his briefcase, threw his jacket over his shoulder and swept out into the hall. "Kaiba-shachou," said Kyoko, from her vigil at the front desk when he passed her like the proverbial bat out of the hot place, "where are you going, sir?"

"I'm taking a personal day," he said, already halfway out the door.

He drove over to Mokuba's school, and went straight to the principal's office. Janis Fields, a severe-looking woman with a disarming smile, greeted him warmly. "What can I do for you, Mister Kaiba?"

Not three minutes later, Mokuba received a call to the principal's office, and he left his science class looking bewildered. When he entered and saw his brother sitting there, looking nervous, confusion switched instantly to panic. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Family emergency," Seto delivered to Miss Fields, for whom the same question was clearly written on her face. He stood up, took his brother's hand, and all but yanked him along as he headed back to the parking lot.

"What's going on, Niisama?" Mokuba asked, his grey-violet eyes going wide. He'd never seen his brother quite like this before. "I was about to give a presentation."

"We'll work it out later," Seto said, and the younger Kaiba was surprised at just how…dismissive he sounded. Usually, schoolwork took priority, such that Mokuba could be vomiting up blood and Seto would still expect him to make a good-faith effort. Now, the man sounded like a project worth half an exam was as superficial as gum on his shoe.

The elder Kaiba called ahead to the house staff, snarling at them to make sure that the place was spotless. He wanted _everything _in order; he wanted tea, coffee, and light snacks set out in the front parlor. He said they would have a half-hour, and he would be home in four minutes.

Those four minutes passed and, true to his word, Seto was pulling through the front gates. He all but sprinted up to the house, leaving Mokuba to scramble after him. Seto told the black-haired boy to brush his hair, and Mokuba knew better than to question the order. He doubted Seto would actually hear anything that his brother said right now. He was in the zone.

Twenty minutes after they walked through the door, the Kaiba home was sparkling. Mokuba sat on the couch, hair as neat as he could make it, while Seto sat rigid in his chair. His eyes were closed, his face set in a stone scowl. He didn't fidget, but all the same Mokuba thought he looked like he wanted to.

The boy had given up asking what the heck was going on, and simply resigned himself to waiting. When the doorbell rang, Seto stood smoothly without the faintest trace of nervousness. He strode over to the door and opened it.

A woman, with grey-streaked black hair held up in a stylish-looking bun, stood there. She had a broad, kind face; the face of a beloved aunt. She was dressed simply in jeans and a blouse, a coat slung over one arm, the hand of which held a bundle to her side.

The woman looked…familiar, but Mokuba couldn't place her.

She beamed at a man known to give people nightmares, like he was a long-lost son. "Good morning, Seto."

Mokuba tried to remember the last time someone had called his brother by his given name, and couldn't. But if that was surprising, then the smile that spread—subconsciously—across Seto's face was almost terrifying.

"Good morning, Valery," Seto said, and he actually hugged the woman.

* * *

><p>Once Mokuba's jaw had extricated itself from the floor, he felt an almost inexorable urge to cry. It was a combination of two things: one, that Seto felt comfortable enough with someone (other than Mokuba himself) to actually <em>hug <em>her; and two, that the woman was comfortable enough with _him _to hug back. And it wasn't one of those polite, 'how-nice-to-see-you-go-away' hugs; Valery's eyes sprang with tears as she patted Seto's back.

"It's wonderful to see you, dear," Valery said.

"You, as well," Seto replied, pulling back and gesturing for her to come in. "Please, sit down."

She sat, and noticed the spread on the table. Her eyes brightened as she took in the tea. "May I?" she asked, and Seto waved an inviting hand. She immediately began pouring, a grin on her face that would have fit better for a three-year-old meeting Santa Claus at the mall for the first time.

Then she looked over at the boy with whom she was sharing the couch, and raised a critical eyebrow. Mokuba squeaked, and sat ramrod straight, feeling like he'd just been caught at something.

"And what's _this?" _Valery asked, her voice a whip-crack. She turned a bit to look the young Kaiba full in the face. "What, do you think you're _exempt, _young man? I won't have it, do you hear?"

Mokuba turned a thoroughly flabbergasted, terrified expression on his brother, who was still smirking. He yelped when he felt the woman's deceptively strong arms wrapped him in a near-smothering embrace.

"_Look _at you!" she declared, her tone having changed to absolute glee. She pulled back, her hands on Mokuba's shoulders. "The last time I saw you, you were still in a high-chair. How old are you now, darling?"

Mokuba struggled to speak. "…E-E-Eleven, ma'am?"

Seto laughed. "This is Valery Hitcher," he said, his voice warmer and brighter than it had been in months. "She was your babysitter, back before the Children's Home."

Valery turned a sardonic eye on Seto. "I used to watch _you, _too. Listen to him. Kaiba-shachou thinks he's _always _been mature enough to look after himself, does he?"

Seto's expression didn't shift a micrometer. "We both know you could have left me in my room, and I wouldn't have done anything that could constitute misbehavior. It isn't my fault you insisted on being _active."_

Valery smirked, an oddly accurate facsimile of Seto's most famous expression.

Seto sat back down in his chair. "Do you remember, Mokuba?" he asked.

Mokuba thought back, searching Valery's face. "I…think so."

Valery beamed at him, tousling his hair and thus invalidating the thoroughly frustrating time he'd spent trying to tame it. Mokuba shot a glare at his brother, who simply chuckled. "Don't worry about it, dear," she said. "I remember enough for the both of us."

"What brings you to the city?" Seto asked, and for once it sounded legitimately conversational, rather than the far more popular impatient. "You've been here since last week."

"Yes," Valery said. "Your secretary told me that you were busy with a new game? I trust the rush has…calmed down a bit?"

"Enough," Seto said.

Then Valery glared at him. "Why is this boy not in school? What _are _you teaching him?" She looked down at Mokuba, laid a hand on his forehead. "That's what I thought. You're not sick, are you? What's the meaning of this, Seto?"

Seto shrugged nonchalantly. "I haven't any idea what you're insinuating. Clearly he has the day off. Else he wouldn't be here. Do you think me _irresponsible?"_

Mokuba blinked. "…Huh?"

"Mm-hm," Valery nodded. "Certainly. That _must _be it. Well, anyway, I believe I've finally realized that I'm not suited to the east coast. Actually, I think I _realized _it a number of years ago, but only just recently managed to come into enough…ah…capital to make the trip back."

At this point, a "normal" rich person would have said that he would have been happy to help with the move, if only she'd asked. It calmed Mokuba's fluttering heart a bit that Seto said nothing. At least there was _something _familiar about this thoroughly outrageous morning.

"We're looking for furniture at the moment," Valery said, "scouring garage sales. I'm not sure I've seen Joel looking so excited since he realized _I Love Lucy _was out on DVD."

Seto leaned back in his chair, looking imperial.

"It certainly seems _you've _been busy in the years I've been gone," Valery said. "All this talk on TV about the youngest billionaire in California's history? And how he's been getting into all sorts of trouble? Honestly, Seto, you seemed so responsible when you were little. What's gotten into you? With those flashy outfits and throwing cards around. What sort of example are you setting for your brother?"

If not the fact that her eyes were practically dancing with pride, Mokuba might have felt the need to stick up for his brother, and explain some of his more…theatrical appearances.

"Those holograms…" Valery said, seeming to have recalled something. "That's what they are, right? Joel seems convinced it's 'the CGI.' You made those yourself?"

"Kaiba-Corp did," Seto said. "The original technology is mine. I haven't created a _Solid Vision _hologram myself since 2002."

"And what's this talk of virtual reality?"

Seto smirked. "It's still a prototype."

Valery shook her head, looking thunderstruck. "My lord," she whispered. "What a mind you have." She looked back at Mokuba. "What about you, hm? How are you doing in school?"

"Okay," Mokuba said, somewhat sheepishly.

"Okay, hm? And what does _that _mean?"

Seto stood up, walked over to the mantle on the far west wall, and retrieved a small envelope. He brought it to Valery. "His latest progress report, from two weeks ago."

Valery inspected the report thoroughly. "Well, now. This is a fair sight better than _okay, _sweetie." She looked at him again. She looked back. "Wait…what's this? _Middle _school?" She eyed Seto suspiciously. "When did he start, Seto?"

"He attended kindergarten at five," Seto said.

"…You little rascal, you _did. _You skipped a grade, didn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And here I was, worrying," Valery shook her head. "You're a little genius, too, aren't you?" She ruffled Mokuba's hair again. "Oh, but I don't know _what's _in those genes of yours. Must have come from your mother." Her expression turned somewhat dark. "Lord only knows your father's stock hadn't enough brains to hack together a brick wall."

Seto actually chuckled, where Mokuba had expected him to scowl.

"Which reminds me," Valery said, and set her bundle on the table and removing something from it. "I wanted to show you boys something." She set down what turned out to be a large, leather-bound book.

Mokuba leaned forward, curious.

Seto leaned back, guarded.

It was a photo album, and Mokuba knew just enough Japanese to recognize what the two characters stamped in silver on the front meant.

**夜神**

Yagami.

* * *

><p>"Your father left this with me, a long time ago," Valery said, opening the album. The first image that popped into Mokuba's head was Kaiba Gozaburo, but of course that wasn't who she meant. She meant their <em>real <em>father. The man he didn't remember. The man Seto never wanted to talk about. "I think it's better off in your hands than mine." She glanced at Mokuba. "Do you remember your father, dear?"

Mokuba glanced at Seto, at the pained expression on his face, and shook his head. "No. Not really."

She opened up the album, turned to a page near the back, and pointed. "Look here, Mokuba." The photo was worn around the edges, but still clearly a lot newer than many of them. It showed a tired-looking middle-aged man, dressed in jeans and a hunting jacket, with one arm wrapped around a young boy's shoulder. The boy was holding a baby in his arms. The man and boy both had identical, half-sincere smiles on their faces. The baby was staring up at the sky, looking mystified.

"…That's…me," Mokuba murmured thoughtfully, pointing to the little infant, who had a tuft of black hair atop his tiny head. He looked up at Valery. "Isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

Seto stood up and shifted over next to them, looking down. He didn't seem to want to look at these pictures; Mokuba wondered why he was bothering. Valery looked over her shoulder. "Do you remember this picture, Seto?"

"1997," Seto said, "November. He took us camping that weekend."

Valery grinned. "Yes! Yes, he _did, _didn't he?"

Mokuba studied the man. He had brown hair, like Seto's. It was shoulder-length, shaggy. He had a five-o-clock shadow, his clothes were sort of rumpled, and he had a look about him that suggested immense fatigue. He had telltale dark circles under his grey eyes.

The boy was small, with blue eyes that seemed almost _too _bright. Unlike his father, the boy was focused and proverbially bushy-tailed. Sort of. He held the baby tightly in both arms, seeming to shelter it.

Mokuba smiled. "My father," he said.

* * *

><p>Valery spent the morning showing Mokuba through all the pictures in the album. Pictures of his parents on their wedding day, pictures of his parents when they first started dating; one in particular showed his mother holding an infant in her arms with a look of absolute radiance on her face. Where her husband's smiles almost always looked forced, Yagami Yuki's happiness seemed to come right through the album and wash the room. Even in the flatness of the photographs, the sparkle in her violet eyes was palpable.<p>

Mokuba dared a glance at his brother when he came across these, and choked up when he saw that Seto was smiling. Like when he'd first seen Valery, it was likely subconscious. Mokuba highly doubted Seto _knew _that he was smiling.

"Look!" Mokuba said when he flipped to a particular page. "That looks just like…like the queen from your virtual game!" He turned a shocked expression on his brother. "She even has the same dress!"

The picture, indeed, portrayed a young girl—perhaps ten or so years old—with a tiara atop her messy black hair and dressed in a princess gown. Judging by the boy dressed in cardboard armor to her left, and the clown to her right, she was wearing a Halloween costume.

She and Mokuba could have passed for twins.

Seto smirked. "You didn't think I actually modeled that character after _you_, did you?" he asked.

"So…this is…Mom?"

Seto nodded.

Valery looked at Mokuba more closely. "…But you _are _a dead-ringer for Yuki. I don't think I've ever noticed before."

"How long did you know her?" Mokuba asked. "My mom, I mean."

"Pretty much since she moved here to the States. I think she was twenty-three when I met her?" Valery said. "I drove her to the hospital, the night your brother was born. Kohaku was at a job site two towns away. I think he ended up taking a bus."

Seeing the curiosity on Mokuba's face, that bordered on hunger, Seto added: "She waited until she and Father were United States citizens before getting married. She was twenty-six years old when I was born." His breath hitched slightly. "Eight years later, she had you."

Valery was nodding. "I don't think I'd ever seen her happier than when she had you boys. She always loved children, and dreamed of having her own someday. She used to get in arguments about it. A lot of her friends and coworkers were involved in politics. Women's rights, you know, and I guess they were offended that Yuki was content to just…have a family. She wasn't very ambitious." Valery turned a certain look on Seto. "Unlike _someone_ I can think of."

"She aspired to something most people refuse to understand," Seto muttered darkly. "Anyone seeking to belittle her for accomplishing what she did…has an immensely narrow view of the world."

Valery's expression turned bittersweet. "She would have loved to hear you say that."

So did Seto's. "I'm not so sure."

"Well, I knew your mother better than most, and _I _am." Valery reached out and took one of Seto's hands. "I know you don't put much stock in Heaven, and I'm not about to try to convince you otherwise. But trust me when I say that if it _is _up there, so is she. I'd bet my life she's prouder than any mother who came before her, to say nothing of the ones who came after." She stood up, turned to look at both of them. "You boys were her crowning achievements, and if you think for a second that you haven't lived up to every expectation she ever might have _dreamed, _I'll smack the both of you upside the head."

Mokuba smiled.

Seto still looked doubtful, as was his way.

"I have to get back to Joel before he blows up our entire block," she said with a sigh. "The way he gets with electronics…if I didn't know how busy you were, Seto, I'd hire you to teach him. Lord knows he needs _someone _who knows what the devil they're doing." She reached down and flipped to the back of the photo album and picked up a pair of envelopes. "I have one more thing for you, before I go."

She handed one of the envelopes to Seto, and the other to Mokuba.

"She gave these to me…right after Mokuba came into the world. She asked me to give them to you when I thought you were ready to see them. I daresay it's been a lot longer than she might have expected, but…I hope you understand. I think the time is right, now."

Seto frowned, and opened his envelope. Mokuba glanced at his brother and did the same.

As they began to read the letters that they found inside, Valery Hitcher stood by the doorway. Tears welled up in her eyes as she watched them. Before long, they were falling freely down her face.

* * *

><p><em>My dearest Seto,<em>

_You've always had a way of figuring things out, even when I didn't want you to. So I'm sure you know, even though no one's told you, that I won't be around for much longer. I won't be able to watch you grow up, or dress you up for your high school graduation. I won't get to visit you at work or embarrass you in front of your coworkers. I won't get to nag you incessantly that I want grandchildren someday, and that you'd better start loosening up a bit so you won't scare away every girl who tries to say hello._

_I'm writing this now, to try to make up for that._

_On the day you walk up to your principal and accept your diploma, bedecked with all the awards I'm sure you'll win because you don't accept anything less from yourself, think of me. On the day you land your first job, think of me. On the day you earn your first promotion, think of me. If it takes longer than you think it should to do any of these things, think of me._

_Remember that I love you, and that I'm proud of you. I always felt like my home, and my life, was missing something. Since the day you came into the world, I never felt that way again._

_Your father is going to take this news hard. He's going to need help. He never was all that good with kids. Maybe you've realized that already, and don't need me telling you. It's going to be hard, and it breaks my heart to think that I won't be there to make it easier for you. But I know you'll make it. You've made me the proudest mother in the world. Don't ever think otherwise._

_ I know that kids at school make it hard for you. I know that you've been lonely, and hurting. I'm so sorry that I have to leave you. But my time is up, and I've served my purpose. I did my part to bring you and your brother into the world, and now God is calling for me._

_ Even though I'm leaving, I'll be watching over you, now and forever. I love you more than you could ever know. Take care of your brother, and make sure you give him a hug and a kiss whenever he's upset. Tell him it's from me._

_ This is goodbye for now, my little miracle._

_- Mom_

* * *

><p><em>My darling Mokuba,<em>

_I've only just gotten to meet you, and now I have to let you go. Your daddy's holding you right now, while I write this. You don't seem too happy about it, either. He doesn't really know how to do it. He never has. But that's okay, because your big brother knows. He knows a lot of things. More, I think, than either of us with the nerve to call ourselves his parents._

_It's only been a couple of hours since you came into the world, and I think I'm already in love. I want nothing more than to stay here, and watch you grow up. I want to watch you learn to walk, and fret over you while you learn to ride your first bicycle. I want to watch you fight with your brother. I want to dress you up, and give you a little brown bag lunch, and watch you head off to your first day of school. I want to panic when you head off to summer camp, and worry about you each waking moment until you come back home. I want to embarrass you in front of your friends, and give you little nicknames that make you blush._

_It turns out I can't. Daddy and Big Brother will have to do it for me. I'm sorry that you won't remember me, and that all you'll have to hold onto are pictures and stories. I'm sorry that I won't be able to watch over you when you're sick, or clean you up when you scrape your knee. I'm sorry that I only have this short time to hold you, to know you, and to love you._

_I'm sure that when you're a little older, Daddy will take you to my grave. And I'm sure that your brother will be there too, dressed up in a suit. He likes to dress up. They'll be sad when they do it, but I want you to know that there's no need to be. I'm still here, watching over you. So smile for me. Smile for your daddy, and smile for your brother. Let them know it's okay._

_ Tell them I love them, and that I'm proud of them._

_I love you, too, my little angel. Don't ever forget that._

_It's time for me to go now. Mind your brother, take care of Daddy, and remember to smile._

_- Mommy_


	35. Be My Glory Ever

_**For those of you who will read this multiple times, I apologize. Feel free to ignore this if you've already seen it, and move on to the chapter.**_

_**Here in my neck of the woods, it is now the 9**__**th**__** day of February, in the year 2012. Ten years ago today, I came across Fanfiction-dot-Net. I proceeded to publish "Lonely, Broken Hero," the first story I wrote that ever felt complete. It was inspired by a song, written for the Square-Enix game "Chrono Trigger," and marked the beginning of a lifelong passion.**_

_**Since February 9**__**th**__**, 2002, I have had the honor of meeting some of the greatest people on earth. These people have given me 5,885 reviews, thousands of Favorites, and over 1.8 million hits across 40 projects. These people have supported me, cheered for me, informed me, criticized me, and helped me embark on some of the most memorable journeys of my life. I never would have made it without them.**_

_**To celebrate this illustrious anniversary, and to thank you for being the best audience an author could ever ask for, I have written extra chapters for each of my 8 ongoing projects. I present them to you now, and humble myself before you. Were it not for you, these stories never would have come into being, or lasted nearly as long as they have.**_

_**Thank you again. You all have changed my life.**_

_**Here's to another decade of adventure and exploration.**_

_**Enjoy.**_

* * *

><p>It wasn't necessarily strange that the Brinkley family went to church on Sundays.<p>

It wasn't even all that odd for Mokuba to join them after staying over the previous night. Heck, it wasn't even strange that the Brinkleys went to the same church as the Mutou family. No. The strange part, the part that would make anyone shudder with superstitious apprehension, even fear…

Was the fact that this week, Seto joined them.

Even Mokuba, who had the most cause to remember, couldn't think of the last time his brother had set foot _near _a church without the expressed intent of visiting an adjacent cemetery. Seto wasn't a normal atheist; he wasn't a passionate atheist, nor an apathetic atheist. He was the sort of atheist who didn't even _think _of religion as a valid enterprise. It was simply not a part of his mental faculties. He attributed organized religion to the same dislodging that explained street magicians and _Twilight _fans: juvenile flights of fancy too mundane to comment on.

Mokuba would have said that Seto would sooner enter a beauty salon to have his nails painted than enter a church. At least, he would have said that before _this _day, when Seto stood in the back behind the pews and watched the pastor with a severe sort of attention that usually made people upon whom it was leveled leave the room in a cold sweat.

When the congregation began reading from the Bible, Mokuba spied a look back at his brother, expecting him to look pained or disgusted. Maybe even to find he'd left. But there Seto stood, eyes still locked ahead, his lips moving as though he were reading right alongside the rest of them, except without the book in hand.

Because, of course, he didn't need it.

Most people thought that Seto thought of the Bible in the same way he thought of alchemy; that was, too archaic and trivial to be worth his time. But while Seto did, indeed, think of alchemy as errant stupidity, apparently he _had, _in fact, read the Bible.

Most studiously, it turned out.

Seto even joined in when everyone began to sing along with the band. All through "Near the Cross" and "Hosanna in the Highest," and even through "Old Time Religion," which Mokuba thought they'd played as a joke, Seto sang. Though there was no fervency of faith in him, no amount of honest feeling, there _was _an air of respect. He was not dressed in his most expensive suit, but in a relatively modest one: black slacks, black shirt, black jacket, gold tie. His gaze never wavered, his face never twitched. For all intents and purposes, he was _attending _a church service.

Afterward, when everyone was picking up their things to leave, Connor said to Mokuba, "I'd have bet my left ear your brother would've waited outside."

"Until a couple hours ago," Mokuba replied, "me too."

Enid and Leonard met Seto by the door, smiling. He shook their hands and exchanged pleasantries. When Leonard asked Seto if he attended regularly, Mokuba received yet another shock to his system and his sensibilities when the response was: "No. I don't feel as though I need to attend weekly services to experience the truth."

What was that?

Seto? Seto _Kaiba? _Being diplomatic?

Mokuba crossed himself, suddenly looking terrified.

Seto turned a slightly curious expression toward his brother. "Shall we go?" he asked mildly.

"Uh…s-sure?"

Seto smiled, and offered his hand. Mokuba took it, simply because he wasn't sure what else to do. They left toward the parking lot after one last goodbye to the Brinkleys. Mokuba let out a sigh of relief when his brother spoke next, in a halfway normal tone of voice:

"You owe me for that."

A smile returned to the young Kaiba's face, and he replied: "Yes, Niisama."

He began to hum one of the hymns, positively buoyant like always. The world had been set right again, and everything made sense. As they approached Seto's Veyron, though Mokuba spied Yugi with his mother and grandfather, and waved.

The black-haired boy's breath caught in his throat when Yugi turned.

Eyes the color of red wine sparkled with malevolent amusement as a dark, hauntingly familiar smirk rose on the young duelist's lips. As Yugi put up a nonchalant hand in response to the wave, Mokuba thought he heard a deep, velvety voice say, "…You'll be perfect."

It didn't feel like a compliment, so much as a threat.

As he got into the car, Mokuba tried to remember if Yugi had been wearing the Millennium Puzzle the last time they'd seen each other.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Oooh…something's going on.<strong>_

_**What is it? What's got Seto going to church? What's got him singing hymns? How does Yugi have the puzzle again? We'll see. This is the doorway into a special place, a new story that I've been working on for a while, at which I've hinted here in the honor of chapter 35. While this project will remain the same as always, I will someday begin posting a second off-shoot of "Paved with Good Intentions." But before I did that, I thought it would be prudent to let you all have a glimpse of it.**_

_**So that you can decide whether or not you'll be interested in seeing where it will lead you.**_

_**Hope you had fun with this thoroughly odd chapter.**_

_**See you next time.**_


	36. Away from the Mucky Muck

_**This past week was my spring break.**_

_** Suffice it to say that I did not get much writing done. The semester has been murder on my ability to focus so far, and I've spent the last seven days recharging so that I can get through the last stretch of it in one piece.**_

_** I spent a lot of that time watching YouTube, playing various games, and trying to remember what it feels like to be honestly awake. These things most assuredly bled into this installment.**_

* * *

><p>Seto didn't smile at conventions.<p>

Not to say that he smiled at any public event, because he didn't. But it was most notable at these events, when the whole idea was to be upbeat and approachable. At least, that's what people kept telling him. Every announcement he gave, every panel he attended, every autograph he signed, he did so with his usual frigid severity, and it had gotten to the point that people not only expected it of him; it had become such a staple that they _wanted _it.

There was something novel, apparently, about a gamer who treated his hobby so damn seriously.

Seto himself, who was no stranger to his own psychology, said, "Most people mock 'serious players' incessantly. They chuckle to themselves and pat themselves on the back, congratulating themselves because _they _don't get so worked up over something as trivial as videogames. 'Basement-dweller,' they say, 'calm down and go outside once in a while. It's called the world, and it's more important than your stupid games. Some people have _real _lives.'" He'd smirked at this point, as was his trademark, and added, "Try telling that to me. I dare you."

So far, nobody had.

To his face, anyway. And that was all Seto ever really paid attention to.

There was a reason for this mood, though. Convention season usually meant that this normally insomniac caffeine addict got no honest sleep at all for a week at a time, and his ability to fake interest in other people—already atrophied—suffered proportionally.

He had no appointments today. Mokuba had insisted on scheduling a "nothing day," as he called it, this time. Seto hadn't been able to muster the right argument to refuse, and so he stood leaning against the wall, watching the crowd of gamers go about their business—the way they seemed to move amongst each other in clumps and clusters reminded his fevered mind of a lava lamp—and pretending he didn't exist.

Vincent Zika approached him with an air of casualness that was unusual for him. Seto watched the man silently, not even _slightly _interested in whatever he had to say. That was, until he said it: "You might want to come see this. Your brother's managed to find himself an entourage." When Seto did not respond vocally, Vincent added: "Some woman in her early thirties just hugged him."

"…And you did nothing," Seto said, icily.

"He hugged her back."

Sighing, Seto began to walk. "Sometimes I wonder why I pay you people."

"I'm not an idiot, sir," Vincent said, falling into step with him. "If I thought she was a threat, she'd be unconscious or dead." Seto glanced at him, perhaps trying to gauge whether Vincent was joking or not; the bald man's face was stone-set.

Seto half-smirked.

"…Good."

* * *

><p>Indeed, Mokuba was surrounded by a great number of people when Seto and Vincent finally found him. If Mokuba were a normal boy, Seto would have been surprised that only a handful of them were other children; however, the young Kaiba had made a habit of interacting with people older than himself. It was the only way he was actually interested in dealing with them.<p>

Mokuba had learned, as his brother before him had learned, that most children were idiots.

The young Kaiba was sitting on a bench, flanked by the woman Vincent had already mentioned, and a teenage boy with several rings through his left eyebrow. Both were talking animatedly to the crowd around them, but whenever Mokuba spoke, they all backed down as though in deference, and it was clear at a glance who was in charge here.

"…Vic's all set to finish next week, right?" one was asking.

"Yeah," said another.

"I'm thinking of doing a blind run of that one for my next project," Mokuba put in, which sent a hush throughout the entire group. Everyone turned to look at him now. The black-haired boy blinked. "What?"

"You're telling me you've never played Banjo-Kazooie," said the woman at his left, almost breathlessly. "Seriously."

"It came out when I was three," Mokuba said, somewhat defensively. "We didn't have a Nintendo 64."

"My parents weren't even married in 1984 and I've still played Duck Hunt," said the boy at his right. "No fooling. You've never played it."

"No."

"Oh, that's _awesome," _said the man named Vic. "You _have _to do it, Wonder. Now that you've gone and mentioned it, that's _gotta _be next. How much longer you got on Symphonia? Just a few more episodes, right?"

"Yeah."

It was a small crowd, but a crowd it was, and it took them a while to notice two new faces in their midst. They turned, almost sharing a consciousness, and Mokuba smiled. "Hi, Niisama," he said, waving. "Vince."

"Seems you've found a way to pass the time," Seto remarked dryly.

"Well, ho-_lee_ shit," someone said. "It's the man of the hour his own self. That's your brother, isn't it, Wonder?"

"Yeah," Mokuba said.

"Care to introduce me to the rest of the class?" Seto said.

"Well," Mokuba said, and he looked less at ease than before, "you know how you told me I should start a YouTube channel a while ago? These are some of my subscribers."

The woman looked at Seto, scandalized. She turned to Mokuba. "He doesn't even _know?" _She turned back to Seto. "You don't watch his videos?" She looked rather maternally offended. They _all _looked offended.

Seto started to answer, but Vincent cut in: "This is the first _I've_ heard of it." He narrowed his eyes. "Come now, sir. We might be old, but we're not ancient. What's your username?"

Mokuba blushed. "Wonderboy996," he said meekly.

Vincent snickered, looking incredulous. "Wonderboy?" he repeated. Mokuba flinched. As one, the young Kaiba's subscribers frowned, and seemed to form a protective ring around him.

Seto raised a sardonic eyebrow. "So," he said, _"this _is the secret of your power."

Laughter broke out and shattered the tension. _"Finally!" _someone exclaimed. "Someone _else _gets it! Very nice!"

"Mock my brother again and you're fired," Seto shot at Vincent, who went pale as he realized he didn't know if his employer was joking or not. Mokuba beamed at them. "And by the way…Madam Why?"

The woman sitting next to Mokuba looked surprised. "Yes…sir?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I was his first subscriber."

Mokuba looked dumbfounded, but Madam Why broke into a grin.

Seto turned and looked over his shoulder, looking like he'd just remembered something. "Oh. Foxfire."

The teenage boy with the rings in his eyebrow blinked. "Yo?"

"Your cousin's ban isn't permanent. We're working out the details." Seto checked his watch, ignoring the entire group and looking entirely too satisfied with himself. He turned his eyes back to his brother. "By your leave, Mister President."

Mokuba blushed again. "That…nickname wasn't my idea."

Seto chuckled, and swept his gaze over everyone before offering a little salute and turning away. "I leave him in your hands," he said, leaving a slack-jawed Vincent to hurry after him. The group watched them go, all smiling as they contemplated the honor that had just been bestowed upon them—they knew the elder Kaiba's reputation all too well.

Mokuba, however, was frowning thoughtfully.

"What's on your mind, Wonder?" Foxfire asked.

"Trying to remember…the name of my first subscriber," Mokuba said, gazing down at his lap. Then he suddenly grinned. He looked around at them, and said, "…Ssyk."

"Eh?"

Realization was dawning on his face. "I just thought it was some weird way to spell 'sick,'" Mokuba said. "S-S-Y-K. Seto Sasaki-Yagami Kaiba." He looked ready to cry. Then he went white as a sheet.

"What is it?" Madam Why asked.

"My brother…he's been watching…all this time. I…I…oh, God. Oh. My God."

"Calm down," Foxfire said. "He's your brother. You live with him. What's with the stage fright?"

Vincent came walking over, and Mokuba looked up, mortified. "Mister Kaiba said it would probably take you this long to realize it," he said, sounding like he was reading from a script. "He sent me to tell you, 'Yes, I saw episode 43 of _Ambition.'"_

After a beat of silence, laughter again erupted from the crowd. Mokuba's face went beet-red, and he huddled against Madam Why, who patted his back and ruffled his hair. "You'll live," she said bracingly.

Mokuba tried to speak, but it only came out as a strangled whimper.

Vincent bowed his head, turned on a heel, and left.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Firstly, to anyone who may have usernames that in any way resemble "Wonderboy996," "Madam Why," "Ssyk" or "Foxfire," I apologize and hope that you don't mind. I've used them here primarily to make a point or to add a bit of flavor, and had no intention of stealing anyone's identity.<strong>_

_** Perhaps a bit of context is in order for this one: a lot of my time spent on YouTube takes the form of watching "Let's Plays." For those who don't know what those are, imagine watching a movie with Director/Cast commentary. Then replace the director or cast with a fan. Then replace the movie with a videogame. That's effectively what they are. Folks record themselves playing a particular game, talking to their audience as they do so.**_

_** Banjo-Kazooie is a 3D platformer released by Rare in 1998 for the Nintendo 64. "Symphonia" is a reference to the Tales of Symphonia roleplaying game released in 2004. "Ambition" is a reference to one of Kaiba-Corp's games, a nebulous title that I've placed into various stories because I suppose I like that word.**_

_** Lastly, "Wonderboy," "the secret of your power," and the title of this chapter are references to the comedy band Tenacious D and its song, "Wonderboy."**_

_** I think that's all. If anyone has any questions, drop a line and I'll do my best to clear it up.**_

_** See you next time, everyone.**_


	37. You'll Be Hooked on the Brothers

_**This somewhat short installment was inspired by "Axe Cop," a webcomic by Ethan Nicolle and his brother Malachai; the website for this rather unique project immediately clarifies that Ethan, the artist, is a 29-year-old man; the writer, Malachai, is a 5-year-old boy.**_

_** It kind of bothers me that this was even mentioned. The artist in me, the one who believes in art for its own sake, says that Ethan Nicolle never should have sold his comic on the idea that it was written by a small child. I would have liked him to simply put it out, and let people make of it what they would.**_

_** I'm not criticizing the decision; I understand why he told us his brother's age, and I applaud him for the concept behind this comic. It's unquestioningly awesome, and anyone who says otherwise hates kittens. I'm just saying.**_

_** Still, like any other story about brothers, it made me think of how Seto would handle a situation like this, and it turned out kind of…different.**_

_** But enough of my rambling. I'll let him explain.**_

* * *

><p>Most people, caught in an embarrassing situation, attempt to explain away their discomfort. They acknowledge the joke, try to laugh along, and pretend it doesn't bother them.<p>

Most people in the situation where the Kaiba brothers currently found themselves would have blushed, or looked sheepish, or otherwise showed some level of discomfort. They sat together in an empty schoolroom at Westridge Community College, across a table from a student. The student had a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other.

"…Okay, so I just have a few more questions, and we'll be done."

Mokuba, who had been straining for the past twenty minutes or so to stay still—he was excitable, and prone to fidgeting—licked his lips. Beneath the table, Seto patted his leg in quiet reassurance.

"Thank you again for doing this, by the way," the student added quickly.

Seto nodded graciously.

"No problem," Mokuba said, smoothly and without any indication that he was uncomfortable; this from a boy who hated being interviewed.

"So…your first project." The student said this in a conspiratorial tone of voice, as though he were sharing a private joke with the faces of the Kaiba Corporation. Most people would have smirked, or chuckled, or waved a dismissive hand. Neither Kaiba moved. "The Adventures of Laser-Dragon. Ah…how do I put this…? It's such a departure from your other games, you know."

Most people would have started explaining. Were he most people, Seto would have said, "It was an idea my brother came up with when we were kids. My favorite _Magic & Wizards _monster, you know. The Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Well, Mokuba always called it a laser-dragon. And he said that would make an awesome game. I promised him that I'd make it for him."

It would have been a heartwarming tale of brotherly love; Mokuba would have blushed, and said he'd been five years old at the time, and didn't really know what he was doing. He knew better now. He was working with one of their teams on another project, in fact. A _real _project.

Not like the fake laser-dragon project. The joke game, made only because Seto was more sentimental than he liked to admit.

"What was the driving force behind that game?" the student asked, raising an eyebrow. "What inspired you to make it?"

Seto would have shared a private smirk and a wink with his brother, and everyone would have a good laugh and understand that _The Adventures of Laser-Dragon _was little more than an April Fool's prank that happened to have been published because Seto was a billionaire and could afford to sink money into pretty much anything he wanted.

Clearly, that was what the smirking, half-chuckling college student expected him to say.

He expected Seto to pawn off the project on his brother, as though to say _he _would never have come up with such a ridiculous idea. He expected justification, some explanation as to why this drivel existed.

Seto simply said, in the same quiet voice he'd been using all throughout the interview, "We wanted to show that we were serious about changing the Kaiba Corporation's reputation. We wanted everyone to understand what it was we were setting out to do: entertain."

"So you just…came up with the most ridiculous premise you could think of? I mean, a dragon with a laser on its forehead, riding around on a jet-powered unicycle? Who comes up with that stuff?"

Seto's expression was free from any kind of chagrin or embarrassment whatsoever—he was not going to grovel and beg to justify the product his company had brought into the world. He did not feel the need to. He simply said,

"We do."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I think he's made his point. What do you think?<strong>_

_** Now go read "Axe Cop."**_

_** Do it for the kittens.**_

_** …What, you're still here?**_


	38. I'm Lost in a Moment

_**I'm in the middle of final exams and final projects and final preparations and final…oh, hell, I don't know what else. I'm taking a break from creative writing at the moment, to focus on academics.**_

_** But this is an exception that I had to make.**_

_** "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes" has, like everything else I've ever created in the past, oh, decade, turned into something far bigger and more important to me than I ever thought possible. The support has been beautiful to behold, and I've never had so much fun exploring the lives of my favorite anime characters.**_

_** Seto and Mokuba have been instrumental to my growth as a writer, of fanfiction or otherwise, and will always hold a special place in my heart as the first relationship in anime that ever seriously spoke to me. My interpretation of that relationship might be a bit rose-tinted on occasion, that much I admit. I can't help it. I cut my teeth on the second series, and we all know that the Kaibas were toned down for that one.**_

_** But ultimately, I'm glad it happened that way. If I'd first met Mokuba in volume 3 of the original manga, with his squat, trollish design and his little switchblade, I probably would have hated him. And if I'd first met Seto as a petulant thief in volume 2 of the original manga, I probably would have hated him, too.**_

_** So yes. It's a very good thing, I think, that I first met Seto while he was on a quest for his little brother's soul, desperate and heartsick and guilty and…well, Byronically heroic.**_

_** Join me in celebrating 38 chapters, 200 reviews, and one year of "Paved with Good Intentions: Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes."**_

_** Join me in celebrating the Kaiba brothers.**_

* * *

><p>Seto and Mokuba made the announcement at the Domino Children's home.<p>

The sheer number of people there was staggering, and for the first time, Joanna Lorwell fully understood the clout the Kaiba brothers held in their city. She stood next to her own siblings, off to the side with the employees, watching faces.

Seto introduced his brother with the charismatic intensity for which he was so well known, with sweeping gestures and pauses in all the right places to take advantage of the cheering of the crowd; Joanna was sure this was being filmed. She would have thought that it would be mostly children here, considering they were at an orphanage (and, well, the Kaiba Corporation was a game developer), but there were a great number of adults as well.

A small group of such adults were the loudest, whistling and _saluting _when Mokuba stepped up to the podium. The young Kaiba smiled graciously down at them, looking for a moment like the crown-prince of some immensely influential kingdom, bestowing a blessing on his chosen subjects. Joanna had never seen her student dressed for business, but she had to admit that Mokuba wore a suit and tie with ease. He wasn't at all uncomfortable, despite the sea of expectant faces in front of him. His hair was smoothed out and braided, and he looked like a completely different person than the thin, unassuming boy that walked into her classroom every morning in jeans and a t-shirt.

Mokuba was flanked by two men. One was lean, broad-shouldered, with slicked-back greying black hair and a well-groomed mustache. The other was huge, slightly pale, with a shaved head. Both were dressed in pitch-black suits of their own, looking just as stern and menacing as any bodyguard, and it struck Joanna that that was probably exactly what they were. Seto stood off behind the boy's right shoulder, his stance easy. She could just spy, though, the pistol at his hip, on which he rested the heel of his right hand.

Remembering what she'd had heard about the last time Seto had used that sidearm, it struck Joanna that this man—the one who'd visited her on parent-teacher night, who'd shaken her hand and smiled (sort of) at her; who'd built a theme park and renovated and revolutionized the ancient institution of orphanages such that this place was not only comfortable, but socially acceptable again—was the most dangerous person present.

Kaiba-Corp was announcing a new development house, KC-Kairos, and Mokuba had been put at the helm of its first project. He exclaimed that this was his chance to show the world that he knew just as much about games as his brother did, and would do his absolute best to make sure that his games would be tailored specifically to a new generation of players. When he thrust up one fist high over his head, the ovation was earth-shattering.

Joanna watched Seto Kaiba's face.

His was a young face, but drawn and severe like an impressionist painter's portrait of an ancient ruler. His blazing blue eyes cut through the air, slicing this way and that; he seemed to be looking for any excuse to pull his gun, as though sure that _someone _would seek to ruin his baby brother's moment in the sun. His mouth was a thin gash, his jawline sharply defined; it was difficult for Joanna to believe that Seto was a full ten years younger than she was, barely out of his teenage phase. He had the bearing of a retired soldier; stiff and jaded and intolerant.

And yet, when the group of people who'd saluted the young Kaiba took up a chant of _"Mo-Ku-Ba! Mo-Ku-Ba!" _and caused the black-haired boy to blush so furiously that he may as well have been sunburned, a sunny little grin rose up on Seto's face that transformed him.

Here was youth. Here was humor. Here was pride and comfort and love.

He strode up, and put a reassuring hand on his child's shoulder.

"…My brother made this company what it is," Mokuba murmured into the microphone, gently, quietly, and the world itself seemed to hush and turn its ear to listen. "I do what I can to help. But…here, now, with all of you at my back…I'm going to do more. I'm going to show you. I'm going to show the Kaiba Corporation. I'm going to show my brother…my dream for this industry. My dream for this company. Thank you…" Here he seemed to choke up. "T-Thank you…for your support."

The hush was still settled over them all, and every heart melted.

After a pause, Seto called, in a voice that rang loud and true without the help of loudspeakers: "Show my vice-president the depth and breadth of your support!"

Like an army called to task by their emperor, the crowd threw up their hands and roared.

* * *

><p><em><strong>"Kairos" is a Greek term referring to a perfect, or opportune, moment.<strong>_

_**The group of chanting Mokuba fans may or may not be his band of YouTube subscribers from the convention chapter a while back.**_

_**Why Joanna? It seemed fitting. She was present for the first chapter of the original Good Intentions, after all; and her sister works at the orphanage.**_

_**Thank you for your support. This past year has been amazing.**_

_**Here's to another.**_


	39. Gonna Learn to Forgive and Forget

_**I'm a fan of rats. No, I don't mean thieves and degenerates; I mean the little animals with tails and paws and rounded ears. Plague-carriers. Bastions and harbingers of filth. Sewer-dogs.**_

_** I've always loved rats (the domesticated kind; I wouldn't pick a rat up out of the sewer, because it would hate me and probably try to gnaw my face off, like any feral animal would). I've been acquainted with five of them in my life, four of which were mine. The fifth was meant for my family because my own Mr. Jingles (those who catch this reference, congratulations; I love you; and yes, I know he was a mouse, cut me some slack) was brought home at a moody age. He likes and trusts me, and pretty much nobody else.**_

_** Her name was Hope. She was sick when we got her, and didn't survive the month.**_

_** The following chapter was not written in response to this event, but that experience did kind of…paint the scene with a certain color.**_

_** That said, I hope that this chapter is enjoyable, in spite of the rather unfortunate event it follows; a bit of angst is nothing new in this series, right?**_

* * *

><p>Glen Hersh had a pet mouse.<p>

Glen Hersh's pet mouse was named Snow, and when Snow died, it seemed like the entire Domino Children's Home rallied around him. To say that Glen was upset by his little companion's departure from the world would have been an insult to them both, and even the Usual Suspects were respectfully subdued about it.

Everyone knew that Glen was grieving, and everyone knew that they shouldn't make it worse. Even David Whittaker, who didn't put stock in respecting anyone's feelings, said nothing.

But Mokuba Yagami was young, the youngest of all of them, and he didn't know any better. He didn't know that his idea would make things worse. He said, with a wide smile on his face like it was the bestest idea _ever, _worthy even of Nii'tama (who knew whole lots of things and always had good ideas):

"You could get _new _one."

The silence that settled over the rest of the children was stifling, and the boy's smile faltered when he realized that nobody seemed to like this plan.

Glen was the first to speak, in a stunned, betrayed, disgusted voice that cut through the air, "…Shut up, you little snot," quiet and breathless like…like _everything _had been taken out of him.

"What the hell's _wrong _with you, brat?" David demanded.

"What're you, stupid?"

"Get out of here!"

"Learn to keep your fat mouth shut!"

And so it went on. Mokuba turned to the owner of each voice, terror and confusion mounting and mounting on his little face; they were all talking at once, shielding Glen as if from enemy fire, yelling at him to leave, to go away, to never talk to Glen Hersh again.

Mokuba stood there, quiet and petrified, until he finally dropped the model plane he'd been meaning to share with Glen, and ran.

The only person who wasn't talking, besides Glen Hersh, was Veronica Belle. She was stone-silent, looking conflicted and angry, and she watched the crowd of other children with an odd mixture of sympathy and disgust.

David eventually said, "I'm gonna go teach that little bastard a l—"

That was as far as he got.

He bumped into Kristine Hathaway, and all fell quiet again. She raised an eyebrow.

A prologue to the woman she would eventually become, she spoke in a voice fit to send the devil running: "Teach that little _what?"_

David was usually flippant and contrary with Kristine, who always saw the best in everyone and never had a bad word to say, but now he balked. He stared at her with a look that would have been right at home on the face of a boy just caught stealing from his grandmother.

"I…he…Yagami…"

"Oh, I know," Kristine said, scowling. She swept a hawk's gaze over the rest of the group as she picked up the younger Yagami brother's toy. "You should be ashamed of yourselves. Every last one of you."

"Miss Hathaway, he—"

_"Mister Hersh," _Kristine cut in, and Glen went white. "The boy is _four. Years. Old. _He was trying to make you feel better." She lifted the little plane to accentuate her point.

"My mouse is _dead!"_

"And did it ever occur to you, to _any _of you, that Mokuba Yagami doesn't know what that even _means_ yet? Did it ever occur to you that he would have to be _taught?"_

Glen Hersh had no answer to that.

None of them did.

She left a trail of shamed silence in her wake.

Days later, when the incident had all but faded into distant memory for most of them, as all memories are wont to do in the minds of children, Glen Hersh was out in the yard, eating lunch beneath a tree and meditating on the swarm of thoughts and feelings that would eventually send him to veterinary school. Little Mokuba Yagami shuffled up to him, holding a sheet of paper in both hands.

Glen didn't think he had anything in particular against the boy; not like David or some of the others obviously did. He thought Mokuba was kind of annoying, but that was basically it. Little kids were annoying. It just happened that way. So he didn't order him away, choosing instead to be diplomatic. He said, "Whatcha want, Yagami?"

Everyone called both Yagami brothers that, by their last name. Except the staff. Glen paused a moment to wonder why that was. Mokuba kind of played with his paper for a while, fidgeting like he didn't know the answer to that question.

Eventually he said, "…I sorry. 'Cuz mousey died. I dint…I dint wanna say sump'in bad. I…I dint know."

Glen blinked. He lowered his sandwich onto his lap.

Mokuba held out the sheet of paper, which turned out to be a crayon drawing of what was clearly supposed to be Snow, Glen, and Mokuba—although Mokuba had never really played with Glen _or _Snow; he'd been frightened of the tiny animal—with the words, "I SORY GLEN," printed laboriously across the top. A sad little face had been drawn next to the apology, with a tear beneath one eye. Admittedly, the little drawing was atrocious; he considered just throwing it away. Then he looked up.

"You could…put on wall," Mokuba suggested, playing with the hem of his shirt now and looking half-hopeful, half-scared. "Or mebbe…mebbe put where mousey buried. His…his grave." He said this last with a grim sort of severity, like he'd just used a bad word.

Glen stared back at the drawing, not quite knowing how to respond. Mokuba kept turning his eyes to the ground, ashamed or embarrassed or both.

Glen finally looked back up at him. "Hey…" he said. "Thanks, Yagami."

"Welcome," Mokuba mumbled, relieved, daring a little smile.

"I think…I'll keep this in my room," Glen said. He got up and headed across the yard, a thousand emotions mixed and jumbled inside of him. He went into his room, found a folder with a bunch of school assignments in it, and tucked the drawing inside it. He would find this picture again not long after his eighteenth birthday five years later, and he would look up the Yagamis for no apparent reason, who of course were Kaibas now—to realize that they were both more famous than their adoptive father could have ever dreamed of being.

And he wouldn't be the faintest bit surprised.

* * *

><p><strong><em>By the way, an update: my blog has pretty much died by this point, and it's been so long since I updated it that the only way it will resurrect itself is if I start clean and fresh. I may just do that. But in the meantime, I have now extended my online presence to the Umbrella of the Internet, Facebook. I'll be posting updates to my various projects, fanfiction or otherwise, over there. So if you're interested in keeping up with me in a broader capacity, go ahead and take a look. You'll be able to find me by my pen-name, "Iced Blood." Look for the one that lives in Lodi, California, and has a profile pic of Hitsugaya (those who don't follow Bleach, just look at the picture on my FF-Net profile).<em>**

**_See you there._**


	40. Hear Us Now, Clear and True

_**Last week, on Tuesday the 15**__**th of May**__**, Activision-Blizzard released Diablo III. Some of you might recall that I once had a crossover story about the Diablo series up on here. So yes, I'm a fan. And yes, I stayed up and participated in the midnight launch event. And yes, I didn't actually get to play the game until an hour later.**_

_**People have been waiting for this game for over a decade. Hype was high, expectations were high, tension was high. Everybody expected the greatest game in the franchise, if not Blizzard's history, and were sorely disappointed when it didn't live up to their expectations; such that the backlash from the gaming community has been massive, and thousands upon thousands of people are calling foul, shaking their fists at the sky and asking HOW DARE THEY?**_

_**I love the Diablo series, I love Diablo III, and I love Activision-Blizzard. I think they're a great company, and their latest release has been everything I ever could have hoped for.**_

_**I have never seen a less-deserving wave of hatred come out of a game's release, and I have never been more ashamed to be a part of this community. Regardless of how disappointed my peers might feel, there's absolutely no excuse to act like this.**_

_**This chapter is a commentary on the thoughts that have been swirling around in my head for the past week.**_

* * *

><p>"Why is he doing this again?" Rebecca asked as she stepped up next to Connor Brinkley, who was watching raptly as his best friend prepared to give a speech.<p>

"Mokuba said he's been hearing a lot of bad stuff about Kaiba-Corp's new game," Connor said, quietly and quickly as though he were telling some kind of clandestine secret. "He said he wanted to do something about it. Air things out."

Rebecca frowned thoughtfully as she watched Mokuba step up to a hastily-erected podium. There was a sizeable crowd already, and it seemed like this certainly wasn't going to be the pleasant outing that Mokuba's speeches usually were; the younger Kaiba was usually upbeat and bubbly before a presentation. Now he looked grave. He was breathing too slowly, licking his lips and taking quick, spasmodic sips at a bottle of water near his right hand. He was trying far too hard to be calm.

He waited, along with the rest of the crowd, for about a half-hour. In that time, at least fifty more people showed up, along with the elder Kaiba and his private security. Rebecca tried to think of a time she'd ever seen the man looking more murderous, and couldn't. Seto seemed to be doing his level best to keep his right hand _away _from the pistol he carried, as though afraid he might draw it out and shoot someone for blinking erroneously if he didn't make a conscious effort.

He stepped up onto the stage with his brother, but stood a few feet behind him. Rebecca realized that he was creating this distance on purpose. She wondered if he was trying to make sure people knew that Mokuba was in charge of this event, and was staying clear so that they wouldn't walk all over him to get at the Big Man. Then she thought it might have more to do with Mokuba himself, as the boy looked over his shoulder, almost pleadingly, at his guardian.

Seto didn't make any sort of response; he didn't even look Mokuba's way. Like keeping his hand off his gun, Rebecca thought this act was deliberate. And she thought maybe Seto was staying away so that Mokuba would rely on his own strength, and pull through on his own.

It seemed cruel, considering the downright predatory looks on many faces in the crowd, but Rebecca thought he must have a reason for it.

At three o'clock on the dot, Mokuba stepped forward and spoke, crystal-clear into the microphone: "Good afternoon, everyone. First, I'd like to thank you all for coming. My name is Mokuba Kaiba, and I'm the vice president of the Kaiba Corporation. I've heard a lot of feedback for _Gambit _over the past week, and a lot of players have concerns. I wanted to hold this little conference so that you all could tell me, face to face, what you think. Kaiba-Corp is dedicated heart and soul to giving its customers—you—the best games we can possibly make. Since _Gambit _is the first game I've been directly involved in, it's a very important project for me. So I wanted to address your concerns directly. You've all submitted your comments, so let's start." Mokuba looked down. "…John Asher?" A young man raised his hand. "Thank you. Please, if you could tell everyone why you're here."

"I pre-ordered the digital version of this game, I installed it, and I was ready to play for the midnight launch. And the servers were dead until at _least_ four in the morning. You guys were making this game for three years. You couldn't put some more effort into preparing for launch?"

Rebecca was surprised and impressed that neither Kaiba made any visible reaction. Mokuba said, "We made every precaution we could, and made as many preparations as possible, to make sure_ Gambit's _launch was smooth. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough. We're doing everything we can to work out the problems and make sure the game is stable for everyone."

The next person asked: "That's the same thing you said on launch night, and the next day the servers went down for eight hours. Never mind how stupid it is to have _no _offline option even for solo players, your company's been in the business for _how _long? And you still can't get things to work right? It's not like you haven't dealt with this before. _Hero's Ambition _was smooth as silk compared to this one. What's your excuse this time?"

"There were unforeseen problems with _Gambit's _launch, and I'm sorry about that. Everything should be running smoothly by this evening."

"So what about the fact that we have to log on to your servers even if we're playing single-player?"

"_Gambit _was always envisioned as a co-op game, with a single-player option. We want to make sure everyone is able to join in multiplayer games as quickly and smoothly as possible. And we want to make sure that we have safeguards in place against pirating and various forms of cheating. As we announced last year during the open beta, connecting _Gambit _to our servers was the best option available to us."

The questions went on like this, with various complaints ranging from "I can't believe you spent so many years making this, and couldn't find such a huge game-breaking bug. Who did you hire to test this thing?" to "If this is the sort of game we can expect out of KC-Kairos, I'm glad you showed us early, so I can be sure not to waste my money on it."

"…broken, buggy, watered-down…"

"People have beaten it in nine hours. That's pathetic."

"How can you justify charging $60 for this?"

"Leave the games to the people who know how to make them, kid."

"I played it for two hours before I had to turn it off. Sorely disappointed."

And so on. Rebecca's opinion of Mokuba raised several notches as the black-haired boy took each complaint in stride. The barrage of insults and demands would have been enough to make anyone crack, yet Mokuba continued to reply to each person in the same calm, smooth, polite tone. His answers seemed scripted, but he was remarkably well-informed.

One of the late-comers raised his hand.

"Yes?" Mokuba asked, pointing. "You, sir, in the back with the green polo shirt?"

"Hi," said the man, probably in his late teens. "My name is Glen Hersh. I don't know if you remember me, Mister Kaiba, but I lived at the Domino Children's home for six years, after my grandmother died. First, I'd like to thank the Kaiba Corporation for the work it's done on my old home. Really amazing work. Second, I'd like to say that I've been playing _Gambit _for the past few days, after I get home from school, and I'm having the time of my life with it. I want you to know that I'm not a part of this. I support you, and the games you put out, and I think everyone here who's been bitching and whining should feel ashamed of themselves."

There was a general cry of indignation, but Glen didn't seem to care. He stared straight at Mokuba, ignoring every other face and voice, and smiled. He gave a quiet, encouraging nod.

"I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the game, Mister Hersh," Mokuba said, once security managed to quiet the crowd, "but everyone here is entitled to his or her opinion, and I'm not here to silence anyone."

"People bought this game thinking they were going to get the same quality as Kaiba-Corp's other games. They were expecting a 9 out of 10, and got a 4. We have a right to be disappointed, and to say so."

"Absolutely, you do," Mokuba said, "and I want to encourage everyone here to let me know their concerns. As I said before, player feedback is extremely important to us."

Rebecca raised her hand.

Mokuba blinked. "…Yes? Miss Hawkins?"

"Everyone is entitled to their opinion," she said, "but to give it in such a rude fashion is, frankly, appalling. If this is how my peers are going to act when a company official actually has the decency and the courage to put on such an event as this, then I want nothing to do with any of them."

"Please, I want to emphasize that I don't want anyone criticizing other speakers. This event is specifically for players to have their concerns addressed, not to be attacked or criticized."

"I apologize." Rebecca bowed her head.

The presentation went on for another forty minutes before Seto strode forward. Mokuba looked back at him, then stepped away from the podium.

"That is all the time we have for this afternoon," Seto said, and his voice was a low rumble. "You have all had a chance to have your voices heard. I hope that you've gotten what you wanted out of it."

The insult hidden in those words ("I hope you're proud of yourselves") hung low and menacing in the air. Seto turned on a heel and stalked away. Mokuba said, "Thank you again for coming. The fact that so many of you came here shows that you care about the games we put out, and I want to let everyone know that each of these comments and concerns will be kept clearly in mind as we continue. Have a wonderful afternoon."

Connor and Rebecca met their friend in the parking lot. Connor was grinning. "You were great," he said. "Really."

"Don't let them get to you," Rebecca said, patting the young Kaiba on the back. "Your game is great, and most of us know it. They're just bitter, and have nothing better to do. Anyone can become a whiny, self-important idiot when the log-in screen doesn't work."

"Thanks, you guys." Mokuba smiled, but he looked tired. "Seriously. Thanks a lot. But, um…next time, Rebecca? If you could…you know, _not _insult our customers? That'd be great."

Rebecca smirked. "I make no promises."

He got into the back of his brother's limousine. Seto glanced at the pair of them, and nodded. It was as much of a compliment as they were likely to get from him, and they beamed at him.

The elder Kaiba brother swept into the vehicle, and the door shut crisply behind him.

* * *

><p>Roland Ackerman and Vincent Zika sat on the opposite end of the limousine as the Kaibas, and neither looked at the pair of them. It had been on Vincent's lips to congratulate the boy on a masterful performance, until he got a good look at Mokuba's face.<p>

Not two minutes after Travis had pulled out onto the street, Mokuba started to cry.

Seto wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him close. Mokuba leaned into the man's coat. "It's okay," Seto murmured softly. "You did good, kiddo."

"I just…I wanted…t-to make a game…people would like as much as…as…yours…"

"You did. That was the vocal minority, Mokuba. Most of them are actually playing the game. People are more likely to speak out when they _don't _like something than when they do. Don't let it hurt you. You did a fine job. Forget them. Remember that _Gambit _broke preorder records. Remember that the reason we couldn't handle the midnight launch was because too many people wanted to play it."

It did no good. Mokuba continued to sob quietly; every once in a while a long, low wail would wrestle its way unbidden out of his throat, and Vincent flinched violently each time it happened. Roland remained stone-faced.

When Travis reached the Kaiba Estate, Seto quietly led his brother inside with a firm hand on his back, and sent him to bed.

Roland watched as Seto stood, stone-still in the front parlor, and Mokuba shuffled up the stairs. "Sir," he said softly after a minute or so. Seto didn't respond; he kept his back turned, stiff as a board and twice as inanimate. "Master Kaiba," Roland said again.

A full five minutes went by. Roland continued to stand there, waiting, fending off the suffocating tension in the air, waiting for some tell. Waiting for some reaction.

"…He did well. I don't think anyone will question why he's your vice-president anymore. Considering the way they treated him, even I'm surprised. You should be proud, Master Kaiba. _We _are."

Seto's response was to let out a roar of fury and send his fist through the wall.


	41. Walk a Little Straighter, Daddy

_**This is a strange one. The inspiration for it was too tangential to really lay out, so I guess it would just be best for me to let the chapter speak for itself. I think the message is clear enough. Sort of.**_

_**Incidentally, though, if you like this series, and if you like the original "Paved with Good Intentions" on which this series is based, you might want to check out my newest project. "Lightbringer" is a side-story that I've been working on for a while, and I think I've finally gotten enough written out that I can start posting it without feeling rushed.**_

_**The first chapter's up now, so take a look if such is your inclination.**_

_**Catch you next time, folks.**_

* * *

><p>Joey came into the shop dressed in slacks, a button-down shirt, a tie slung over one shoulder and a blazer over the other. He'd combed out his wild hair, and he'd shaved particularly carefully that morning. Yugi and the others grinned and commented on whether he was working for the government or not. For Mokuba, who was on any given day surrounded on all sides by an ocean of suits, the outfit was about as formal as lunch out of a paper sack.<p>

There was something…glazed about the way Joey looked at them. His brown eyes trained on Mokuba after a while, and he quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, kid," he called. "You got a minute? Wanna talk to ya 'bout something."

Mokuba stood up, curious, and followed Joey out into the parking lot. There was a faded white basketball lying just outside, and the blond picked it up and started tossing it up into the air. Mokuba shut the back door behind him. "What's up?"

Joey pushed the ball toward the black-haired boy; it bounced once against the concrete. Mokuba caught it, bounced it a few times, then tossed it back to Joey. "Went 'n saw my dad," he muttered. He looked straight at his young friend like he was squinting against the glare of the sun, though it was hanging somewhere behind his right shoulder. "Out at the cemetery. Y'know. You remember yer dad, Mokuba?"

Mokuba shook his head. "No."

Joey tossed the ball. "Know how he died?"

Mokuba caught it, bit his lip and tossed it back. "…Car crash."

"Don't sound like you believe that." Joey spun the ball on his left index finger, staring at it as if mesmerized.

"Niisama doesn't talk about it. He doesn't think I know anything about it. But he thinks Dad killed himself."

Joey sighed deeply. "Ma, she thinks the old man got mugged." He shook his head, looking disgusted. "Wrong place, wrong time. Buncha shit. Idiot went 'n drank himself stupid, pissed off the wrong psycho in the wrong fuckin' bar."

"…You're angry."

"Betcher ass, I'm angry. Dumb son of a bitch." He threw the ball toward Mokuba, harder than before. Mokuba grunted as he caught it. "My mom leaves a beer with the flowers, whenever she shows up to visit 'is grave. Says she forgives 'im for everything. Goddamn liar."

Mokuba blinked. "Joey?"

"If she fuckin' forgave him, she wouldn't still look at _me_ like I'm a goddamn cockroach." Joey scoffed and turned away, kicking at the concrete. "Anybody ever tell you, oh, it's so _sad_ your parents left too soon?"

"Yes."

"Whatcha think o' that?"

"I think…maybe it is. I wish I could remember them. But I'm okay. Niisama looks out for me."

Joey smiled, but it was a bitter expression that would have looked far more natural on Seto's face. "He does, don't he? Busts his ass for you. Always has, I bet. Woke ya up in time for school if yer alarm didn't work? Took ya to the bus stop, made yer lunch? Took ya to the park? Took care o' ya when you were sick? All that stuff?"

Mokuba nodded. "Uh-huh."

Joey nodded back, wistfully. "Yeah. Me, I never got that. Far as my folks were concerned, I fucked up their lives. Ended the honeymoon. Made 'em wake up and see what a coupl'a assholes they really were. Had a kid 'cuz that's what they're s'posed to do. Realized hey, this shit's _hard. _Screw this. Guys like Kaiba? Who just…man up 'n get it done? Guys who up 'n drop everything, no matter what it is, 'cuz their kid's in trouble? Rare. Too fuckin' rare."

Mokuba smiled. "Listen to you. Saying nice things about my Niisama."

"Your Niisama," Joey repeated, softly. "Yeah, well…guess my point in all this ramblin' is…sorry, kid. Got it wrong. Pegged 'im for the wrong kinda asshole. I mean, don't get me wrong. I still think yer Niisama's a raging dick. But…so'm I, half the time, so whatever. But…y'know…where it matters? All that stuff you been tellin' us since the beginning? You were right. So…yeah. Just wanted ya to know that, I guess."

"I've known that for weeks. You're not as smooth as you think, Joey. You think I could spend my whole life with a guy like Niisama and not pick up some stuff? You've been softening up for a long time. So has he. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were friends."

Joey chuckled. "Man, shut up. Don't know nothin'."

Mokuba tossed the ball back. "You keep thinking that."


	42. It's Easy to Love You

_**I don't usually post two chapters in two days. But there's a reason my update schedule for this project is "as often as possible." That's what this project is about. The Kaibas are a pair of characters that I can look at from…pretty much any angle whatsoever. So many ideas flit around my head on a daily basis, and sometimes I wonder why they have such longevity with me. But, I won't fight it.**_

_**I'd originally intended to post a chapter on Father's Day, because…well, thematically, it felt appropriate. But that didn't happen, because I spent the day at my dad's house, and didn't bring my computer with me. Not to mention, I'm not sure I could have come up with something even if I had. My brain is fickle.**_

_**But that doesn't mean I can't write about Father's Day a bit late. Besides, I've spent so much time dragging Mokuba down and showing the hardships he has to face...it's about time I focused on the happy little kid we've all grown to love over the years. Right?**_

_**So…here we go. This one's dedicated to my dad, though he won't ever read it. He…doesn't read. But that's fine. I don't watch sports. We're cool.**_

_**Happy Father's Day, Padre.**_

* * *

><p>The camera was centered on Mokuba, but in the background was a poster of Seto, staring down with his usual haughty glare. Yet something about the look on Mokuba's face made that glare seem…softer.<p>

The black-haired boy sat easily, his hands in his lap; his smile was half-nervous, half-exultant. A tiny, unobtrusive little microphone peeked out from beneath his hair and sat just so next to his lips, so that when he began to speak, his voice was crystalline.

"Hey, there, guys," he said. "It's your Wonderboy. You know, I don't usually do, like, public service announcements like this, but I thought I should do one today. Prob'ly you can guess, since the name of this video is sitting right there on top of my head—" he glanced up "—this isn't my normal weekend episode. I don't know how many of you guys will be watching this today, and actually I hope it's not many."

Mokuba sighed, and looked back at the poster of his brother as if for reassurance. "It's Father's Day today," he said slowly, without looking back at the camera. "I've talked about my family before, about how my dad…both of them, actually, my real dad and my adopted one, aren't here anymore. I don't even really remember them." He turned back to face his audience. "I live with my brother. I don't think _he_ needs an introduction." He pulled his locket out from beneath his shirt and opened it. He showed the little picture to the camera. "There isn't a Brother's Day. Least, I don't think there is. But that doesn't matter. That's not why I'm making this video."

The young Kaiba took a deep breath. He continued: "Not everybody has a dad. Maybe he's just not around anymore. Maybe he passed away. Maybe he's a drunk. I don't know. But I know we always have _somebody_ that we look up to. Somebody we can turn to, when we don't know what to do. Maybe it's your mom, 'cuz she raised you by herself. Maybe it's a friend. A teacher. A celebrity. Somebody on a talk radio station that gives advice. Maybe it's Dr. Phil. Whoever that is…I think _that's _the person you want to celebrate today." His smile widened. "You know who that means for me. So here's what I want you guys to do for me for Father's Day. Think about that person. Right now. Think about what they've taught you. What they mean to you. Today, do one thing that will make them proud. Just _one_ thing. Anything. Write a letter, sing a song, paint a picture, whatever it is. Let them know you've learned from them. Let them know that you're a better person because of them. And if that person _is _your dad, well…maybe do the whole card thing, too."

Something about his face changed. The smile dropped, and he was suddenly serious. Mokuba's resemblance to the man on the poster behind was suddenly made painfully obvious. He licked his lips, and it suddenly became clear that emotions were getting the better of him.

"I've got one more thing I want to say, before I let you go: Niisama." He took another steadying breath. "I didn't know, when I started making these videos, that you would watch them. I guess I thought you just threw out the idea of me starting a YouTube channel to…to keep me busy and productive or something. Seemed like something you would do. Sometimes it's scary, how much you push the whole 'productive' thing. Sometimes I wonder if I should fill out a special request form to get you to go out for ice cream with me. But…you've been watching. Like everything else I do, you're there. Supporting me." Mokuba glanced back at the poster, and the smile came back. "You always tell me it doesn't matter what I do, as long as I put my all into it. As long as I love it. As long as I do it for the right reasons, and I'm happy doing it, you'll be proud of me. I want you to know, I'm listening. I love you. Everything I do, everything I am, it's because of you. My brother. My captain. My king."

Mokuba stood up, saluted, and reached forward. "This is your Wonderboy, signing off. Happy Father's Day."

* * *

><p><em><strong>As an aside, I just wanted to clear up something about the previous chapter, which had the same general theme as this one. The death of Joey's father is something that has been in my mind for so long that I tend to forget it isn't canon. It's something in my version of the YGO universe primarily because I feel that the old man was a toxic influence on Joey, and the only way to heal from that would be to get rid of him…and the only way I saw that working would be for him to die.<strong>_

_**Joey wasn't at his father's funeral; it was probably the anniversary of his birth/death/et cetera. Bit of a family tradition, I suppose. I apologize for any confusion I may have caused by mistaking the story in my head with canon.**_

_**In any case, I hope you enjoyed this installment. I'll catch you next time, folks.**_


	43. The First Step of a Million More

_**I've spent thousands upon thousands of words over the past decade on Seto Kaiba. Kaiba Seto. The guy with the propensity for flashy holograms and monetary rule-screwing. And that locket thing. Does that make me a fanboy? I certainly hope so. If not, it makes me wonder what the prerequisites for such an institution are, and whether I want any part of it.**_

_**In all that time, I like to think that I've honed his particular brand of arrogant snark into an art form. That's part of why this collection exists: as proof that I can put this man into any situation, and know how he'll react. I've come to know him so well that actually watching him in anime form becomes this weird, surreal kind of dream-state where reality starts bending and weaving like light rays in a mirage.**_

…_**I've written this guy a lot, is what I'm getting at. The thing is, I've spent the vast majority of that experience focused on his later years, because trench coat. But before he donned his first duster like it was some custom-tailored chrysalis (I like alliteration), that Kaiba kid did other things besides scowl and play cards.**_

_**Every once in a while, or so the legends say, he would actually have a good time.**_

_**I thought I'd try my hand at one.**_

* * *

><p>The man was still grieving. There was no use even asking, as the proof of it was literally carved into the prominent, canyon-like wrinkles set into his brow, and the greying of his dark brown hair; he was still in his thirties.<p>

The woman with him, who was slipping her keys into her purse, was about fifteen years older than he was, but just by virtue of her disposition she looked much younger.

The heartbreakingly premature death of Yagami Yuki had left a gaping chasm in the hearts of everyone who had ever met her, but nowhere was the healing of that chasm so polarized than in her best friend and her husband. Valery Hitcher, who had come to think of Yuki as a surrogate little sister, had resolved to live in honor of her. She'd started painting again, she'd taken that trip to New York City, and she'd asked Joel to marry her.

Yagami Kohaku had given up.

He still worked. He worked harder than he ever had. He worked full-time at one job and part-time at two others. He kept his children sheltered, and he kept them fed. Every once in a blue moon, he took his two boys out to a nice dinner, or a baseball game, or attended a school function. But one look at his deadened grey eyes told the truth.

Kohaku had died right alongside his beloved bride, and the only reason he was still breathing was because his body was too stubborn and lost to know any better.

The two of them, these pillars of grief—one coping, one drowning—stepped into the living room of the Yagamis' home, and the scene that unfolded before them very nearly stopped their hearts.

Seto was seated on the floor, legs tucked and folded underneath him; he had both thin arms out in front of him, and the look on his face was half-excited, half-agonized. "That's it…" he murmured gently, coaxingly. "Come on. You can do it, Mokie."

Little Mokuba, dressed in pajamas far too big for him—the sleeves of the shirt and the legs of the pants were rolled up several times—was waging a life-or-death battle against gravity and inertia as he stumbled forward on wobbling legs. He would take one jerking step forward, then tumble to the floor, and every time he did Seto would hiss in a breath and have to force himself still. Then Mokuba would cry out in frustration and clamber upright again.

Valery's lips mouthed the words, "Oh, my Lord…" but her voice had left her.

Kohaku's face was completely unreadable.

She knew why. Almost a decade ago, on this very floor, this scene had played out in almost the exact same way. Except instead of an eight-year-old boy sitting on the floor struggling between wanting to laugh and wanting to scream, it had been a twenty-seven-year-old woman and a twenty-eight-year-old man. And instead of a little black-haired toddler taking his first steps, it had been a little brown-haired one.

Valery could see them, cheering on their firstborn and having to remind themselves to let him walk all on his own, having to remind themselves that their baby's grunts and babbling wasn't him asking for help this time, but asking them to stay right where they were—all of it was choreographed right there on Seto's face as he watched his brother.

Five minutes passed, with Valery and Kohaku watching silently as Mokuba shuffled and stumbled toward Seto's waiting arms. When he finally made it, Seto laughed. It was a lovely sound, bright and honest. It crossed Valery's mind that, in all the years she'd looked after him on weekends, and all the home movies Yuki had loved to show off, this was the first time Valery had ever heard the Yagamis' little genius laugh like that.

Seto hugged Mokuba to him, lifted him up into the air and rocked back and forth. "You did it!" he cried. "You did it, Mokie! What a big boy! Good boy, Mokie! Good job!"

Mokuba, for his part, was giggling and grinning from ear to ear, clearly pleased with himself. He was the first to notice his audience, and thrust out an arm toward them. Seto glanced over, and it was clear from the way his sparkling eyes widened that he'd had no clue they were there.

Instead of his usual somber greeting, Seto grinned like a fool and said, "Did you see? Mokie can walk!"

Valery blinked back tears and choked out, "Y-Yes. I saw."

Then Kohaku did something then that surprised even Mokuba, who was staring at the both of them like he couldn't understand why the big people weren't cheering and laughing, too. The boys' father squatted down, a tiny little smile playing at his cracked lips, and he said, "My eyes aren't what they used to be. Let's see if he can show me again."

Kohaku held out his arms.


	44. Today, I'm Gonna Love My Enemies

_**A bit of warning: yes, this chapter will deal with Siegfried again. Now, I know what you're thinking. "Ugh. All right, already, we get it. He thinks the kid's traumatized. Can we move on, please?"**_

_**I do apologize. This one takes a different turn, though, and sets out to start something that I've been trying to do for a number of years. So I beg patience, and hopefully things will work out for everybody.**_

_**Please?**_

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, sir. We have a situation."<p>

Seto took a long moment to realize that someone had spoken. Usually, when a company-wide email stated that someone was working from home, the implication was that that someone wasn't working as hard as they would have been, had they bothered to come in. This was certainly not the case with the CEO of the Kaiba Corporation, who often took the excuse of his private sanctuary to entrench himself even deeper than usual into his innumerable tasks.

He continued typing for a long while before finally turning to face the speaker, a relatively new hire by the name of Jared St. John. He had short-cropped blond hair and a young, though severe face, not unlike his employer's. When Seto looked at him, Jared said, "You've a visitor. The little mister" (this was what he called Mokuba) "has evidently given orders to the senior staff that she is not to be permitted onto the grounds. He's said that he doesn't want you to bother with her. Do _you_ want to…?" He trailed off.

"Name?" Seto asked, though he had already guessed and was rising to his feet.

"Gardner," Jared replied.

Seto checked the time. 1:30 PM. Mokuba would not be home from school for another hour. He nodded. "Invite her in. Ensure that she is comfortable, and tell her that I will see her in a moment."

Jared nodded curtly. "Yes, sir."

When Seto entered the front parlor a minute or so later, he found Téa Gardner sitting at the edge of the couch, still wearing her jacket and looking as nervous as a mouse envoy sent to negotiate with a cat. He pointedly ignored the wave of irritation that welled up inside of him; he reminded himself that he had neither time nor tolerance for the petty grievances of his teenage years.

Seto sat, and regarded his old nemesis. "I believe it safe to assume that you are here for a specific reason," he said slowly, with none of the enmity Téa clearly expected. "I would ask whether you are comfortable, but it is clear that you are not. Perhaps it would be to your liking if we skip straight to the point."

She nodded. "I…wanted to…talk to you about…Siegfried von Schroeder."

Seto could not, much as he tried, hide the violent flinch and revulsion that shuddered through him at the sound of that name. "I figured as much," he said, straining not to clench his teeth. He would not succumb to weakness. "From what I understand, Mokuba has already made it quite clear how he feels about that subject."

Now it was Téa's turn to flinch. "He…he did. Yes. That's why I'm here. I wanted to…" She was about to apologize; Seto was sure of that. But she seemed to think better of it, and said instead, "I…wanted you to know that…I regret how I acted. I shouldn't have been so quick to think of you as a murderer." She'd clearly practiced this particular speech. Her voice was halted and mechanical. "I shouldn't have thought of you as a murderer at all," she added, and this did _not_ sound scripted. "I…had no right to."

"You have every right to believe whatever you will," Seto said, and this surprised her again. "Mokuba might think you are unjust, that your opinion of me is mean-spirited and offensive. I do not."

"You…you don't?"

"We have little if anything in common, Téa Gardner. I have just as little tolerance for your beliefs as you do mine." His voice was curt, and neutral, with just the faintest undercurrent of the smoldering indignation lurking in his subconscious. "I have no more intention of worrying about your opinion of me than I do of hammering you with mine. For a long time, I strained to convince people to listen to me, to understand the way I think. It hasn't once made a difference."

Téa stared at her lap, clearly chagrined. Again, she did not apologize. She said, "I don't think it matters, how _you_ look at my opinion." Seto's opinion of her rose a notch. "I've never seen Mokuba angry before. But the way he looked at me…the way he shouted at me…"

"I must apologize," Seto said, more sharply than he'd intended. "I did not raise my brother to treat his friends like that."

"No. _I_ deserved it." Her face turned hard. _"He _didn't."

Seto blinked in slight surprise. "Excuse me?"

"What I did…what I thought of you…it hurt him. And why shouldn't it? You're his guardian. You're his protector. After what he went through—never mind. You know much better than I do what he went through. There's no justification for how I acted. Maybe you don't care what I think of you, but…Mokuba does." Now she looked Seto directly in the eye for the first time. "I didn't come here to apologize. That wouldn't do any good. I just wanted you to know that…that…" She cleared her throat and tried again: "That kind of anger…it hurts the person feeling it, just as much as the person receiving it. Mokuba's been through so much already, and I…I had no right, adding to it. Especially not for the reasons I did. I wanted you to know that I don't ever intend to do that again."

Seto stood up, and Téa stood with him.

"Understood," Seto said, offering the faintest of pleasant expressions. He held out his hand. "I'll hold you to that."

Téa smiled nervously and took the offered hand. "Thank you for your time," she said.

"Not at all," Seto said, and showed her to the door.

Téa left, and both felt as though they understood each other, for better or worse, just a little bit more.


	45. What's in My Head

_**In my innumerable musings about the stresses of Kaiba-Corp and what it does to both Seto and Mokuba, I tend to focus on Seto's point of view as the consummate professional; that is, the guy who doesn't let things get to him. He's grown up in the five or so years since the beginning of the series (remember that he's twenty years old in this series).**_

_**It's rare that I look at those stresses and problems from Mokuba's point of view. Even the last chapter that tried to delve into it ("Hear Us Now, Clear and True") focused more on the other people involved. This isn't specifically from Mokuba's point of view, either, but with this chapter I tried to actually let him speak his mind about it.**_

_**As to how that turned out for him…well.**_

_**We'll see.**_

* * *

><p>Seto never played his own company's games.<p>

"How come?" Connor asked, when the subject had first come up. He seemed legitimately mystified, though Rebecca looked as though she knew the answer before Mokuba ever spoke. The three of them had taken to eating lunch together, in one far corner of the school courtyard where sat a table that Mokuba had essentially claimed as his own.

"He says he doesn't need to," Mokuba said. He assumed a lofty, aristocratic tone of voice as he added, "They stand strong enough on their own. He doesn't need to reaffirm his own work." He chuckled, but he looked almost sad. "He says he gets all the feedback he needs from customers…more than enough, actually."

"He doesn't play games for fun?" Connor asked. "Why play a game if not…?"

"Mister Kaiba _does _play games," Rebecca said. "Right? Just not KC's. He scopes out the competition."

Mokuba nodded. "Even when he's having fun…well, fun for _him, _anyway, Niisama has to be multitasking. People used to say the only reason he plays games with _me _is 'cuz he'd penciled 'Brotherly Bonding' into his schedule."

Rebecca frowned. "Um…there's no easy way to ask this, but…isn't that kind of _true?"_

Serenely, Mokuba said, "Maybe."

"That's messed up," Connor mumbled.

Mokuba shrugged. "He's a workaholic. Lots of people don't get what that means."

Though the younger Kaiba insisted that he didn't mind when his friends criticized him, or his brother, both Rebecca and Connor knew better. They shared a look, both thinking that that sounded suspiciously like an excuse. Mokuba often glossed over the negative parts of his brother's personality, if not outright ignored them.

"I don't _like_ it," Mokuba said, half-sharply, and both of the others flinched; he'd seen that look, and knew what it meant. "But it's part of who he is. It was drilled into his head: he has to be efficient. All the time. Not just 'cuz of our…father." He seemed about to use another word, then thought better of it. "If that was all it was, he'd be over it by now. _Everybody _says he has to be efficient. Has to be on top of his game. Has to be available, has to be working, has to be striving. If he takes a day off, people call him lazy. If he spends money, people call him selfish. If he brushes someone off because he's too busy to talk, people call him a snob. Well, no. They call him a 'colossal prick.'"

This was one of, if not the only _seriously _sore spot for Mokuba Kaiba; he was "pretty chill," as a general rule. He didn't let things bother him. When people insulted him, called him names, tried to bully him, tried to make him feel guilty…almost none of it ever worked. He was a Kaiba, and a Kaiba had no time to bother with things like that.

To make Mokuba angry, what you had to do was start talking badly about his brother. It didn't matter who the person was; anyone with the temerity to criticize or analyze or scrutinize or terrorize Seto was an eternal enemy to this boy.

"When I leave Kaiba-Corp, work is over," Mokuba added. "When I tell everyone I'm going home, they wave and say goodbye. They don't call me at three in the morning because something's gone wrong. They don't drag me into a conference room an hour later, or insist that my phone should always be on, even when I'm on vacation, just in case." Mokuba's grey-violet eyes were smoldering now.

Connor and Rebecca shared another, guilty, look.

"When—" Mokuba was cut off by a mechanical beeping. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a phone. Holding it to his ear, he said, "Kaiba…I—no, I'm at _school. _Uh-huh. No, I don't know why his phone is turned off. Leave him alone. Maybe you should—_excuse me, _do you mind? Did that _really_ sound like the right time to start talking? Was I _right_ in the middle of a sentence?Don't you act indignant with me. If you were talking to my brother right now, do you really think he'd put up with it? What makes you think I'm any different? Don't call me at school again. I'll get _detention. _If you get me into trouble because you can't figure out how to do your own job, or if I find out that you still insist on calling my brother _on his_ _day off, _you're fired." Mokuba hung up.

Connor bit his lower lip.

Rebecca looked embarrassed.

Mokuba turned his phone off, scowling. "See?"

* * *

><p>"Young Master Mokuba…do you realize who you hung up on?"<p>

Roland Ackerman was as tactful as anyone could ever be, but it did nothing to quell the swelling anger on the young Kaiba's face today. Mokuba raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised that you think I care," he said, in a remarkable imitation of his brother's signature sarcasm. "I was at school. I'm not _allowed _to answer my phone at school. If I'd been in class, I'd have gotten detention."

"But you _weren't _in class, and Mister Inglewood knew that."

"Does _nobody _listen to me?" Mokuba clenched his fists and stared up at Roland as though he'd grown an extra head. "I'm_ not allowed _to answer my phone at school._ Ever. _I broke the rules. Is _that _clear enough for you? Do I need to put it in writing before you'll pay attention?"

Roland didn't react. "Be that as it may, we _did _have an emergency this afternoon, and it _did _require your brother's attention. He had no other recourse than to do what he did, for which you have evidently threatened to fire him?"

"Oh, boo-hoo for Mister Inglewood," Mokuba snapped. "I'll send him a card. Does my title mean _anything _in this building? Or should I just quit? Is that what you people want from me? Do you want me to stop wasting your time pretending like I have a right to be here?"

"That's not what I'm saying," Roland replied gently.

Something snapped, and the floodgates opened. "Then stop acting like it's _my _fault that I'm eleven years old! I'm not my brother, okay? I can't take college classes and have a degree by next year! I'm so _stupid _I only skipped _one _grade!"

"Mokuba—"

"_I'm trying, all right?" _Tears of frustration sprang unbidden from Mokuba's eyes. "I'm _trying _to go to class and do my homework early, and come here and work on my game, and answer emails from my team, and fix problems, and _get over _all the _crap _I have to put up with!" Roland stumbled back a step, as though physically struck. A great number of people had gathered to watch by this point, including Thad Inglewood.

And Seto Kaiba.

"I'm _sorry _I'm not my brother! I'm _sorry _I can't just…just…_stop _things from bothering me! It bothers me when you treat him like a tech support line whenever something breaks because you were too _stupid_ to stop it! It bothers me when you treat me like a joke and then turn around and expect work out of me! It bothers me when people put guns in my face! It bothers me when you act like what _I _have to do isn't important enough! It bothers me when you act like I'm an _idiot _because I think _my _problems are just as important as yours! It bothers me when you expect me to lie down and _take it _when you pretend you have a bigger claim to my brother's time than I do! It bothers me when you _bitch _about getting called in on your day off, then turn around and do the same thing to my brother! It bothers me when you're a hypocrite and get mad at _me _for it! _Fuck_ you!"

Roland, stone-faced, closed his eyes and bowed his head.

Mokuba drew in a long, shuddering breath. Something about watching him pull the same meditation trick that Seto used when _he _was furious was more telling than anything he'd said. "…If any one of you…was betrayed by someone you thought you could trust, and taken away from your own home, and thrown in a cell. If any one of you was tied up and used as _bait. _If any one of you got a gun put in your mouth, or had to…had to—" He stopped, gathered himself, and started over: "You'd quit. You'd go into counseling, or take up drinking. You'd expect a vacation. You'd expect sympathy. You'd expect support. From your coworkers. From your boss. If you said, 'Hey, I need a break,' you'd expect people to listen."

His face hardened, and the resemblance between Mokuba and his brother had never been so clear, or so heartbreaking. "I don't, because I know it won't happen. I won't get sympathy and support from my coworkers. I won't get a vacation, not without being yelled at. Not without people making me feel guilty for it and talking about how my performance is suffering, and it's starting to _concern _them, as if anyone put my workload onto _them _when they were eleven. I won't get time to readjust, I won't get slack. I won't get respect for coming back to the building responsible for everything bad that's ever happened in my life. Do you know, I'm supposed to get paid for working here? I'm supposed to get a salary. I don't, because I'm a kid and my brother takes care of me. I give the money I'm _supposed _to get to charity. But do I get a smile, a nod, a 'Well done?' No. I get _this. _I get, 'Do you realize who you hung up on?' Yeah. I hung up on _my employee."_

People expected Seto to step up, for Kaiba-shachou to lay down the law. They expected him to give his signature glare, to threaten everyone into submission, and dare anyone to say a single word against his brother again. They expected him to fire Thad Inglewood, to make a snide and dismissive remark to Roland. They expected him to yell at them to clear out and leave Mokuba the fuck alone.

He didn't speak at all.

He listened; he watched. But he refused to say a word.

Mokuba went on: "Everybody here, with their fancy suits and their briefcases and their _curricula vitae, _treats me like a kid. Then they expect me to act like an adult. They want me to do my job, but don't want to let me do it, because what do I know? _I _didn't earn it. I got this job because I'm the CEO's brother. And there can't be any other reason, because, well, I'm a kid. Just a stupid kid. And what do stupid kids know about making videogames? _Nothing."_

A great number of faces were now lowered, like Roland's; Thad Inglewood's among them.

"I work under a supervisor. I do jobs usually left for interns. I find lectures and videos online. I practice. I ask people how to do things, and I take notes. But I still get treated like I haven't learned anything. I still get treated like I don't do enough. I get on stage, I give speeches, I make better PowerPoint presentations than most of the people here, _after_ I get my homework done. I go to conventions to _work. _I get interviewed, I attend conferences. I do everything I can to promote this company, and tell people how great it is, and how dedicated we are to making the best games in the world. What more do you want from me?"

Silence.

Mokuba turned his back on them. "…I have to go home, and waste company time to study for a test. Sorry for the inconvenience. I'll make it up to you later."

He walked away.

Seto watched his brother leave, then turned and headed for his office, leaving behind the loudest silence to ever fall over the Kaiba Corporation's regional headquarters.

* * *

><p>Thad Inglewood, Roland Ackerman, Helen Aarden, Vincent Zika, Travis Copeland, and a number of others all stood, rank-and-file, in front of their CEO's desk.<p>

Seto stared at them all as if he had no idea who they were, or what they wanted.

"Johan Donalds will be calling tomorrow morning at 9:30 AM," Seto said after a while. "I will be sending Ackerman and Aarden to PAX East. Copeland, for the next week, I will need you to stay on call for an extra two hours in the evening. You will be compensated accordingly. Inglewood, I want that report on my desk in the morning." And so it went on; he delegated tasks and made orders just as he always did, with no indication that anything at all had happened earlier that afternoon.

Nobody said anything when he packed up and left the building at four minutes to five, nearly two hours before he'd intended.

He drove home, and walked across his front yard with his usual quick, purposeful stride. He opened the front door, stepped inside, and hung up his coat and jacket. He set his briefcase aside, removed his tie, and stepped into the front parlor.

He ascended the stairs to the second floor, went down the hall, and found his brother's bedroom door; it was closed. He knocked.

"…_Come in."_

Seto stepped onto the threshold to see his brother making quick jabs at the keyboard of his computer and tossing aside a wireless headset. "Recording a video?" he asked, spotting the software on the screen.

"Trying," Mokuba muttered. "I can't…think."

"May I?" Seto gestured to the bed.

"Yeah."

He sat down.

"Are you finished studying?" Seto asked.

"Test was yesterday," Mokuba muttered. "I was trying to be dramatic."

Seto chuckled; the black-haired boy turned to look at him. "It worked," Seto said.

"No, it didn't." Mokuba sighed. "That didn't do anything. It didn't even make me feel better. I just dug myself into a hole. They're all thinking what an idiot I am, what a spoiled little brat. See, we were right, he _shouldn't _be here."

Seto leaned forward. "Mokuba, I want you to listen to me. Okay? Can you do that?"

Mokuba nodded.

"Do you know what my job is?"

Mokuba frowned, seemed about to speak, then quieted. He shook his head.

"My job is to make sure that no matter what cataclysm shakes its foundations, Kaiba-Corp stays upright and functional. My job is to ensure that my people are able to do their jobs, and that our products are the best in the industry. But more than that…my job is to give you the opportunities you need in order to thrive. My job is to teach you. My job is to keep you fed, clothed, housed, and healthy."

The inklings of a smile twitched Mokuba's lips.

"_Your _job," Seto continued, "is to go to school. _Your _job is to keep your room clean, to brush your teeth, and get to bed on time. _Your _job is to find out what you want out of your life. Right now, at your age, once your homework is done and your chores are finished, your job isn't to make presentations and practice speeches. Your job is to have fun. To take your free time and do whatever the hell you want with it. And I know what you're thinking: _I _didn't do that. _I _spent my time working or sleeping. I never had time for fun. You're thinking that all my free time was spent raising you, taking care of you and making sure you were happy. You're thinking that the least you can do is help me, now that you're old enough. But if that's making your life miserable, if working at Kaiba-Corp is making you unhappy, then _don't do it._ Find something else that you _want _to do. Find something you _love _to do. _That's _your job. Do you understand me?"

Mokuba bit his lip.

"…Yes, Niisama."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Niisama."

"I love you. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Niisama. I…I love you, too."

Seto gestured, and Mokuba sat down next to him. Seto put an arm around the boy's shoulders and hugged him close. "Now," he said, in an entirely different tone of voice from before, "about your language…"


	46. My Tears Have All Been Cried

_**I'm not sure what I'm doing. I guess venting. Reconfiguring my brain. Working out stress and worry the best way I know how.**_

_**Over the course of the past number of updates, I've mentioned a couple times that a family member's been in the hospital. That family member is my maternal grandmother, and she's out now. She's back home, but the news isn't nearly as good as any of us had hoped.**_

_**She's on borrowed time now. There's nothing we—or her doctors—can do for her. We just have to make her comfortable, and make the most of the time we have left with her. This is the first time I've ever been faced with the idea that someone close to me is dying.**_

_**I'm not saying this as a play for sympathy. This isn't about me. As you read this chapter, and anything else that I post from now on, I want you to think of her. It doesn't matter that you don't know her personally. I think you all understand, instinctually, who she is.**_

_**Think of a little old lady who wanted nothing more out of life than to take care of her family. Think of a beautiful human being who's always been there for her children, and who's always had faith in her grandson.**_

_**When you read my work, I want you to think of the woman who has always been my greatest supporter.**_

_**Thank you.**_

* * *

><p>"…My mom's in the hospital."<p>

Joey was sitting outside the shop with his feet splayed out in front of him, his back against the wall, nursing an energy drink the way someone else might nurse a beer. He said it without provocation, as if he knew—and he did—Mokuba would eventually ask him what was going on.

The young Kaiba's sunny smile faded into a concerned frown. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." The blond's voice was resigned, almost breathless, and his eyes were far away, unseeing. "Truth be told, I don't give a shit."

"You sound like you do," Mokuba replied, not sheepishly. He was direct, just like his brother might have been. His was the face of someone who was no stranger to tragedy, and understood—far beyond his years—that his emotions, whatever they were, had no place here. He was calm, collected, and blunt.

Joey eyed him suspiciously. He took a sip from the thin can in his hands. "Yeah. Well, see, there's the part that's fucked, kid. My own mother's in the hospital. She's sick. Like, seriously sick. Don't mean two shits in the wind to me."

Mokuba sat down next to his friend. Joey handed him another, unopened, energy drink.

"You tried these?"

"No. Thanks, but that's okay."

"Nah, go for it. C'mon. Tell your brother I forced it down yer throat."

Mokuba chuckled weakly, took the offered can, and opened it. "Are you _sure? _I mean, that you don't…care? Maybe…" He drank. The lightly-carbonated liquid burned, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. The black-haired boy licked his lips, and set the can aside.

"Good, right? Listen…legend says, you 'n Kaiba got taken in by yer godparents, 'fore you turned into the state's problem. That right?"

"Yeah."

"Died a while back, right?"

"Mm-hm."

"How much did yer brother care?"

A pang of something unrecognizable struck Mokuba upside the head. He sighed. "He…didn't. He just said 'Thank you' to the person on the phone who told him, and took another call. He didn't even tell me until we got home. He made sure _I_ was sitting down, but…_he_ just…stood there. He wasn't relieved. Or angry. Or…_anything._ He had his assistant send a flower arrangement to the funeral home the next day. He didn't—he didn't even care enough to spite them."

Joey was nodding. "Yeah. That's about it. See, my mom, she couldn't take Pop's crap anymore. So she up 'n left. Took Ren with her. And bless her for that. My dad was a fuckin' asshole. My baby sister don't need that kind of crap. But me? She just ditched me. Pitched me to the wind. Washed her hands 'n moved on. Left me t' clean up her numb-fuck failure of a marriage."

Mokuba took another drink, because he wasn't sure what else to do. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know whatcher thinkin', kid. Don't matter. She's still my mom, right? See you, you don't know what it's like. Livin' with parents like that. And I'm not sayin' that's against you. I'm glad. Kaiba looked out for you. Kaiba took care of you. Kaiba—Kaiba loves you. But my mom…my—you know she didn't even…?" Joey stopped, took several deep breaths in an ultimately futile attempt to curb the rage that was so clear in his too-bright eyes.

"Maybe…maybe she couldn't…afford…?"

But Mokuba couldn't even finish the thought. He could already hear Seto's voice in his head: _Then she should have stayed where she was until she _could. _She should have protected her children. It's never a child's responsibility to clean up an adult's mess. _

"Yeah. Bet she tells herself that. Just like she couldn't afford her daughter's eye operation. You know she didn't even thank me for that? Didn't even _acknowledge _it? Didn't give me a nod, or a pat on the back. No, 'Hey, thanks for doing my _fucking job _for me.' Nothing. Like it was goddamn expected for me to do it. Like I didn't have a life of my own. Like _I _couldn't have—like she thought I owed that surgery to _her."_

Mokuba studied the blond's face, marveling at just how much it looked like Seto's when _he _was angry beyond honest comprehension.

"Oh, but you know what she _can _afford? She can afford a new Chevy Cruiser for her birthday last year, 'cuz she wants to _treat _herself. Never mind the few _hundred grand _I gave up to make sure—goddamn it. God…_fucking _damn it!"

"Joey…I…"

"…Sorry, Moku-man. Ain't your problem."

"Serenity knows."

Joey flinched.

"She knows it was her big brother who helped her, when things got really bad. That counts for a lot. Trust me."

Joey took a long swig, leaned his head back and stared up at the sky. "She wants me to visit. Clear the water between us. Bury the hatchet, or whatever."

"Serenity does?" Joey nodded. "So…you don't know what to do. You want to make your sister happy, but you don't want to see your mom. Don't know what to say, don't know why you should lower yourself to that level. Don't want to lie to her, but can't tell the truth."

An odd look. A frown. "How did…?"

"…I tried to get Niisama to see our godmother before she died."

Another swig. "Too damn smart." Raised eyebrow. "Did it work?"

"No. Niisama wouldn't go."

"Did it upset you?"

"…Yeah. For a while."

"I should go, shouldn't I?"

"Maybe."

"I'm gonna end up going, aren't I?"

"Probably."

Joey groaned, rolled his shoulders, and stood up; he stomped down on his empty can, reached down, picked it up and tossed it into a nearby dumpster. With one last deep sigh, he slipped his hands into his pockets and started walking away.

Toward his car.

He turned. "…Hey. Mokuba."

"Mm?" Mokuba still sat, sipping daintily as though he were testing fine wine.

"Thanks."

"Welcome."


	47. You'll Always Be My Baby

_**Last chapter, I mentioned that my grandmother was dying.**_

_**I'm posting this early, much earlier than I intended, because the event this chapter was meant to commemorate came much earlier than I expected.**_

_**A little woman named Nola Routier died the morning of August 11, 2012. She was 69 years old.**_

_**I write this in memory of her, and dedicate it to the 25 years I spent with her. I've been blessed, and as unfair as it feels to have her leave this early, that's not the important part. **_

_**It might seem strange to some people, that I would write a piece of anime fanfiction in memory of one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, but there is a reason I have been doing this for as long as I have.**_

_**It's important to me. It's how I cope with stress, and it's how I share my love of these worlds and these characters with you. My audience.**_

_**She would have understood.**_

_**Goodbye, Grandma. I love you.**_

* * *

><p>When he sleeps, Yuki watches him.<p>

Sometimes, Kohaku stays in the doorway and watches, too, but he's never been the most affectionate father. Still, he tries, and Yuki knows how hard he tries, and she loves him. He is a hard worker, a dedicated provider, and he constantly berates himself for not doing more for his family. The fact that Yuki works part-time makes him feel guilty. He isn't a chauvinist. He can't help it; he's old-fashioned. He feels that he has failed her. He feels that he has failed their fitfully sleeping son.

It's how he was taught.

Yuki strokes back little Seto's hair; his fever has broken. "How's he doing?" Kohaku whispers, and Seto stirs; he does not wake. Yuki looks over her shoulder and gives a lopsided half-smile. She shrugs.

"He'll be fine by morning."

"Valery said he probably could have gone back to school today. Said he_ wanted_ to go. Why…?"

Yuki's smile sharpens the slightest bit, and it looks strangely familiar. "Seto-chan is always moving. Always working. He'll have catalogued his entire school library by the time he graduates. It's our job to teach him, too. I'm teaching him to slow down. I'm teaching him to relax."

"You make him sound like some executive that needs to stop and smell the roses. He's a little boy, Yu."

The smirk goes away; she's just smiling, sort of wistfully, again. She strokes Seto's hair back again, leans down and presses her forehead to his. Then she kisses his cheek. "Sweet dreams, my little miracle," she whispers, and she stands up.

Kohaku follows her down the hall, chuckling quietly, wondering if his wife will admit to herself that she just wanted to pamper her baby for a while longer, whether he needed—or wanted—it or not.

Twelve years later, it's a different bedroom, and a different bed, and a different door and a different hallway. Nobody is sick, just exhausted; Yuki feels a pang of desperate longing.

She is dead now, and her little miracle does not believe in an afterlife. Her little miracle has grown into a man now, tall and angular and handsome and brilliant and bitter. Seto Kaiba does not smile, like Seto Yagami used to do, and it makes Yuki ache.

But she is proud. Prouder than words can express. He does not smile, but he is strong. He is resilient, he is dedicated. He has become a force of nature, and her heart swells when she sees him. He is strict, and sometimes he is angry. Sometimes he is harsher with his little brother than she would want.

He may not be the most affectionate father, but he tries. She knows how hard he tries, and she loves him.

And when he sleeps, Yuki still watches him.


	48. There's Something About this Place

_**This is a shorter chapter, because the idea it's meant to convey is a simple one. It's a common ritual among friends, especially when you're young, to spend time at each other's homes. I've shown Mokuba at the Brinkleys' often enough, but I've never had other people come to the Kaiba mansion.**_

_**I started wondering why, then discovered that the answer was deceptively simple.**_

* * *

><p>"Can Connor come over sometime?"<p>

Seto didn't flinch; it wasn't quite fair to call his infinitesimal spasm of surprise a flinch. But his brain did a double-take at the asking of this seemingly innocuous question, and he felt a sudden urge to cough, to clear his throat, to do _something _that would hide the thoroughly awkward moment of silence as he scrambled to come up with an answer.

But he knew better than to think that would work. Mokuba had always had a quick mind, even as a toddler, and he had always been able to read the minutiae of his brother's moods without conscious thought. So, Seto simply raised an eyebrow and banked on the most longstanding and most loyal trick in his social repertoire—sarcasm—and said, "No. Absolutely not. I don't allow peasants on my proper—of _course _he can. Did you finish the make-up work your English teacher gave you?"

It worked, at least it seemed to work, but nonetheless the surprised delight on the black-haired boy's face was like a knife stabbing straight through Seto's ribs. "Uh-huh! It's in my backpack. Want to see it?"

"No, that's fine."

"Can he come on Saturday?"

"If your room is presentable by then, yes."

"'Kay!" And he rushed over to the other side of the dining room table, where Seto was currently seated, and hugged him. "Thanks, Niisama!" Mokuba all but skipped out of the room, humming a tuneless little song to himself, and Seto slumped back into his chair and brooded.

He'd meant it to be a joke—or, at least, whatever the microcosm of half-baked optimism that served him for a sense of humor provided him in _place_ of jokes—but some part of him had been thinking it was the truth; some part of him _didn't _want Connor Brinkley in his home.

And then there was the fact that Mokuba seemed to have known that, and _expected_ him to say no.

When this preoccupation with his own antisocial stupidity didn't leave him the next day, he called Roland into his office and mentioned it, wondering if another perspective might help. After all, it wasn't as though Seto was any kind of expert on how to be normal.

"It seems a rather cut-and-dry case to me, sir," Roland said, not even bothering to hide the amusement on his face or in his voice. "It's become a rule over the years. Yugi Mutou, Tristan Taylor, Joseph Wheeler…his friends up to now have never been permitted onto the grounds. He's convinced himself that the rule is: 'When I want to visit my friends, I go to _their _homes.' I think he's forgotten that you _don't _hate Young Master Brinkley."

Darren's opinion, which he pursued next, was similar: "The first time you met him, he'd just gotten caught cheating on an assignment, and he implicated Mokuba in it. He didn't make the best impression on you. And I think everyone in this city knows what it means when you don't have a good impression on somebody."

Joey Wheeler (why Seto asked after _his _input, he wasn't sure and didn't want to examine further) put it in much simpler terms: "What, Mister Perfect Brain don't have an answer for somethin'? C'mon, man. Excuses, explanations, promises, compromises. None o' that flies with you. Moku-man prob'ly figured you wouldn't let Connor in 'cuz he fucked up straight outta the gate. Most people get a one-strike-you're-out policy with you. How's the kid s'posed to know that wasn't the case this time? You don't _talk."_

Once faced with this new information, Seto eventually realized that it all boiled down to a single, irrevocable piece of advice:

Lighten the fuck up.


	49. All You'll Ever Be is a Faded Memory

_**It is November. I just finished a midterm a couple of hours ago, I'm behind on my NaNoWriMo project, I have a 20-page research paper due in a handful of weeks, I just got back into World of Warcraft, I'm broke, and I've been watching far too much YouTube.**_

_**Life is good.**_

_**Just because I'm busy doesn't mean I don't have time for fun. When I was struck by this idea a while back, I told myself I'd write it down as soon as I had some spare time. Well, I came across said spare time this morning, and so here I am.**_

_**This is the 95**__**th**__** chapter of the "Paved with Good Intentions" series, and the first time I've actively written the Kaiba brothers in quite a while.**_

_**I hope you enjoy it.**_

* * *

><p>"I don't know" was a euphemism.<p>

Mokuba Kaiba heard those three words in direct sequence so rarely that they had long since become red flags; he'd grown up under the impression that his Niisama knew everything, which meant, of course, he never had to use those words. So, on the sparse handful of occasions he _did,_ Mokuba knew that Seto was lying; he _did _know, but didn't want to admit it.

"Is God real, or are the grown-ups just lying?"

"I don't know, Mokie."

"How come Otousama made you work so hard?"

"I don't know, Mokuba."

"What do you think made Siegfried von Schroeder try and kill me?"

"I don't know, little one."

It was Seto's way of maintaining what little innocence his little brother had left; not because he didn't think Mokuba would be able to handle it, but because he was afraid that Mokuba very well _could. _Seto didn't want an eleven-year-old boy—_his _eleven-year-old boy—knowing how to process this level of ugliness.

Mokuba didn't have the heart to tell his brave, tortured Niisama that he already knew the answers to those questions when he asked them—or, at least, he had a good guess what answers Seto would give him. When he heard "I don't know," the younger Kaiba let it go.

He would pout, or make a sarcastic joke, or sigh, but he wouldn't ask again.

* * *

><p>"You look rather disgustingly pleased with yourself."<p>

The big man called himself an enforcer; he fancied himself a guard, a warrior and a spy. A victim. He was strong, in a bull-headed sort of way, and did what he had to do in order to survive in a world that didn't understand him. Or some such bullshit.

The big man thought he was Seto Kaiba.

Roland Ackerman knew better than anyone else that this man—if that, in fact, was the right word—named Saruwatari was no Seto Kaiba.

The smirk on Saruwatari's face, which revealed too many spit-shining teeth, made Roland physically ill.

"You'd do well not to underestimate me, _sir. _You should have known the charges wouldn't stick. I have…resources."

Roland rolled his shoulders and his eyes. "Mm. Yes. Better not to underestimate a big, strong man who resorts to kidnapping children because he's too physically inept to do anything better." Saruwatari's grin faded into a scowl. "On Crawford's island, you managed to get your ass handed to you by a fifteen-year-old boy not once, but twice. Then you resurface, bigger and badder than ever, and have a repeat performance against _eighteen-_year-old boys. Truly, you are a force to be respected."

Saruwatari had had to have reconstructive surgery to fix his face after his last confrontation with the Kaiba family; he was scarred and distorted. He was a man worthy of Frankenstein's monster.

Roland looked bored. He hated the cliché of meeting his old enemy in a back alley behind an abandoned apartment complex, but he'd had no choice; he couldn't afford to be picky about his venue. Not for this job.

Roland said: "You have two strikes against you."

Saruwatari's smirk returned, and he chuckled. It was raspy, gravelly. "Here to _warn _me, boss? One more strike and I'm out?"

"No. I don't believe in three strikes. Twice you've endangered the life and welfare of a child under my protection. The last time a man proved stupid enough to do that, he died. I trust you remember."

"Ooh. Threatening me, are you? Are you sure that's a good idea?"

Roland glanced around the alley, wondering how many people were watching from the shadows. He directed his next statement to them: "Whatever connections you have, Saruwatari, are beneath my concern. If they're stupid and pathetic enough to stand against the Kaiba family to defend you, after you've failed _twice _to emerge victorious in a skirmish against children, then they deserve whatever they get."

"…Don't get in over your head, Ackerman," Saruwatari growled.

It was Roland's turn to smirk. "Don't call me that. I don't like it."

He reached into his coat.

* * *

><p>Mokuba cornered Roland some days later, and said, "Vince was talking to Niisama, and he said Saruwatari got off. He's out of prison. Nobody knows where he went to. He's…gone. Off the face of the earth."<p>

Roland's face remained composed; he didn't feel the need to hide his satisfaction at this line of conversation, but neither did he feel the need to comment on it. He said, "Are you worried, Young Master? Would you like me to speak with Master Kaiba about keeping you home from school for a while?"

The black-haired boy shook his head. "No. That's okay. If I do that, it just means he wins. Right?" He turned his eyes away, looking far more apprehensive than his voice let on, and Roland felt a certain rush of vindication.

The boy looked up at Roland again; his grey-violet eyes were vulnerable. "Where do you think he went?"

Roland shrugged.

"I don't know."


	50. Til the Healing is Done

_**Notice something?**_

_**Check on the little drop-down menu up to the right. See, next to the chapter title?**_

_**50. Fifty. Five tens. Ten fives. Half a hundred.**_

_**I don't know about you, but I seriously didn't see myself reaching this point anywhere near as quickly as I have. Okay, sure, so I've dropped off from my 3-times-a-week update schedule, so theoretically I should have reached this point long before now.**_

_**But life has a way of spitting on your plans sometimes. It's petty like that.**_

_**I wanted to write something special for this momentous chapter, but other than that I didn't have any particular idea outlined before I started. **_

_**I just got a new computer, and with it a new keyboard. And whenever I get a new keyboard, I have to christen it. I suppose I could have dumped a Red Bull on it (I don't have any champagne), but I don't like sticky fingers.**_

_**I decided, instead, to write this.**_

_**The last time I visited this particular scenario was five years ago, when I wrote the second chapter for "Earning an Accolade." Which is kind of romantic, since that story acts kind of like a spiritual prologue for the Good Intentions series.**_

_**I've incorporated a character new to the Good Intentions universe, but familiar to those who've read "Cemetery Dance," into this chapter; Mokuba's attendant/governess, Yoshimi Akiko.**_

_**I hope you enjoy this.**_

* * *

><p><strong>Summer, 2001<strong>

* * *

><p>"…Then, when no one was looking, the baby dragon—"<p>

"Bocchama! What the _hell _do you think you're doing?! How many times do I have to tell you, this behavior is grossly unacceptable?!"

Seto Kaiba didn't move from his place—perched on a metal folding chair from one of the supply closets—next to his brother's bed with a picture book in his lap; he didn't even bother to glance at Diamun, who stood in the doorway impersonating a bullfrog. The Kaiba heir simply stopped talking, dipped the spoon he held in his right hand into the bowl of soup he held in his left, blew on the morsel of chicken and broth he fished up, and slipped it into little Mokuba's mouth. The black-haired boy swallowed painfully, but smiled.

Diamun's entire face quivered, incandescent with rage. "You will _not _ignore me!"

Seto closed his eyes, sighed, and said, "Lower your voice. As you would be able to see if you bothered to do your job, Mokuba isn't feeling well. He's running a high fever, and I want him resting."

"We hire _staff _to handle the boy," Diamun said snidely. _"You _have more pressing obligations."

"No, we don't; and no, I don't. Do not presume to tell me what my obligations are." Seto finally acknowledged his antagonist. "You only hold as much authority over me as I permit you. If you think I'm overstepping my bounds, please bring the matter up with my father. See how much he cares."

Seto fed his brother another bite. Mokuba accepted it meekly.

"Don't think just because you've had a few minor successes with the company that you've earned the right to undermine me!"

"My 'minor successes' have been directly responsible for some of our most highly-regarded products in recent years. And don't be ridiculous. I _claimed_ the right to undermine you as soon as I realized how insignificant you are. As I might remind you, my legal name is now Seto _Kaiba. _You have spent a great amount of time informing me, quite passionately, how powerful that name is in this city. As it turns out, you were right. Now get out of my brother's bedroom. You're making him uncomfortable."

Actually, Mokuba seemed quite entertained by this exchange; his eyes were sparkling. But then he descended into a coughing fit, and Seto set down the bowl and leaned forward. The book clattered to the floor. Seto helped Mokuba to a sitting position and tenderly rubbed his back.

When the black-haired boy could speak again, he asked, squeakily, "…What happens next?"

Seto sent one spasmodic flare-up of a glare at Diamun as he picked up his brother's book.

"You're still here?"

* * *

><p>"…refuse to tolerate this behavior anymore! This has gone on <em>long enough!"<em>

Seto came into Gozaburo's office glaring down at his watch, as though beautiful and important women were waiting for him. He stood stone-still in the center of the room, arms flat at his sides, and raised an impatient eyebrow. "What is it?" he demanded of his father.

Gozaburo leaned forward. "Diamun tells me that you are spending your time frivolously. As I recall, you are scheduled to head a conference in two hours. I would remind you that Mister Yoshitori will be present at that conference. Are you sufficiently prepared?"

"I've rescheduled the conference," Seto said sharply. "I haven't the time for it today."

"You _see?!"_ Diamun crowed.

"And what matter has so commanded your time that you cannot spare it for one of the most important moments in your budding career with my company?" Gozaburo asked, slowly.

"My brother is sick, and Diamun has the house staff running about the house preparing for some superfluous meet-and-greet with his 'contacts.' As my suggestion to hire a personal attendant for Mokuba has thus far been ignored—" here Seto sneered at Diamun, but only cursorily; the same look he would level on a persistent rodent, "—the responsibility of caring for him has fallen to me."

It was Gozaburo's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You're shirking an appointment with Yoshitori Noboru in order to feed your brother soup and fluff his pillows."

Seto didn't bat an eyelash. "That the rest of this house places no value on Mokuba's welfare is beneath my concern. Our arrangement involved you adopting and providing for the both of us. You and Diamun have thus far proven entirely inept at meeting my brother's needs. I am used to picking up the slack in that regard, so I have opted to do it here."

"I agreed to adopt the both of you. I did not agree to let you play nursemaid."

"First off, I have never given you the authority to _let _me do anything in regard to providing adequate care for Mokuba." Gozaburo leaned back, surprised. "Second, if this so concerns you, then hire a competent chief of staff who will allow me to appoint someone to do this _for _me. I'm done playing games with the two of you. I will not let my brother be neglected because you can't be bothered to hold up your end of our bargain."

"For the love of God, the boy isn't _dying! _He has a damned _cold!" _Diamun snarled.

"I'm also growing tired of hearing you call him 'the boy.' He is a Kaiba, the same as Otousama or myself. By insulting him, you insult this family. Are you so superior that you reserve the right to pass judgment on us?" Seto looked the squat little man up and down, looking thoroughly disgusted.

Diamun sputtered and squawked wordlessly, but stopped when Gozaburo held up a hand. Such a simple gesture, yet it silenced the very air around them all. "Seto is correct," he rumbled. "Young Mokuba _is _a Kaiba. You will treat him as such." Diamun visibly deflated. "Have you anything else to say to me?" the elder Kaiba asked Seto; a lesser man would have taken it as a threat.

Seto nodded curtly. "I do. My brother _will _be cared for, either by myself or someone of whom _I _approve. I will accept no other arrangement. Apparently, I cannot trust anyone currently under this roof to handle the minutiae of his daily requirements. And, incidentally, I spoke to Yoshitori-san myself, to inform him of our unfortunate delay. He has two sons of his own, as I'm sure you know, and he seemed quite impressed that the Kaiba family places so much importance on its children."

Gozaburo smirked. His eyes were flinty, but interested.

He gestured. "…Very well, Seto. Attend to your brother. But I expect your conference to take place no later than tomorrow afternoon."

Seto bowed his head, and turned to leave.

He stopped as he put a hand on the door. "Diamun." He said it like a curse. "I warn you now, in Otousama's presence: if you deign to treat my brother with such an offensive level of dismissal again, I will murder you with my own hands. I will bludgeon you to death, piss on your corpse, throw it into a wood-chipper, and set the pieces on fire. I've long since run out of patience with your childish ploys for authority, and you are fast proving yourself to be much more trouble than you have ever been worth." Here he stopped, and put on a pensive, thoughtful face. "But…feel free to trust in my father to have a different opinion." He glanced at Gozaburo, pointedly. "He has such a history of sentimentality, after all. I'm sure he will protect you."

Seto disappeared, and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>Autumn, 2007<strong>

* * *

><p>"I didn't know you cooked, Seto-sama."<p>

Seto sprinkled a dash of salt into the pot, then studied the simmering broth. "It isn't often that I have time," he murmured slowly. He reached over to grab the wooden spoon he'd left on the counter, and stirred. "How is he doing?"

Akiko smiled cheekily. "To hear Bocchan put it, he's been dying since breakfast. He says you poisoned his syrup. 'Oh, God, he's like that mom from _Sixth Sense! _You two are plotting to keep me locked in here forever to be the baby in some Stepford fantasy horror movie!'"

Seto snorted. "If he's well enough to make pop culture jokes, it sounds like we don't have much of anything to worry about." Some part of him noticed the use of the word "we," and from the curious glance she gave him, Akiko did, too. He didn't acknowledge it; neither did she.

It was odd how well she fit into the schema of the Kaiba Estate. But then, she'd been given the highest recommendation anyone could be given in the whole of Domino City. There was no opinion Seto valued more than Big Kristine's, though he was largely unaware of this. He didn't think of her as a mother—he was too married to his past for that—but if he'd ever bothered to truly consider the matter, Seto would have noticed that between them, Kristine Hathaway and Valery Hitcher had done as good a job as any picking up the slack, and better than most.

Kristine had recommended that Seto hire this young woman; he had hired her.

"When do we sit her down for her first performance evaluation?" Roland had asked once, and Seto had given him a blank look in return.

"When there's a point to doing one," he'd said.

Seto might have expected Akiko to make further small-talk; to mention how heavenly the soup smelled, or some crack about how Seto would make a rather convincing housewife if only he'd wear an apron. She didn't. Instead, she said, "I can't help but wonder sometimes, if you don't mind my saying, why you keep me on your payroll. I'll be honest with you, Seto-sama: he's recovering beautifully. If you want my personal opinion, he smiles far too much to be traumatized. And as for my professional opinion, he seems to have things quite well in order."

Seto smirked; there was no small amount of pride in it. But he said, "In case humility keeps your opinion in check: the reason you haven't seen more warning signs is precisely because you are here to observe them."

"What is this, Schrödinger's Psych Exam?"

Seto chuckled. "Not quite." He stirred again, grabbed a fresh teaspoon, tasted, and nodded decisively. This done, the elder Kaiba stepped over to the cupboard, fished up a short stack of bowls, and ladled soup into one of them. He dropped a pair of ice cubes from the freezer into it.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were spoiling him," Akiko said, when she realized Seto intended for her to figure out what he'd meant on her own. "Fresh, homemade soup just because he's home with the sniffles? Are you doing this because the chef is off today?"

"I sent Connolly home myself," Seto said. "It's…something of a tradition."

"This family seems to have a number of those."

Seto shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps," he said.

* * *

><p>Akiko leaned against the doorway. Seto sat near his brother's bed while Mokuba attacked his meal. Apparently the soup was not poisoned. Seto's hands would fidget, every once in a while, and Akiko figured that when the little Kaiba had been younger, Seto had fed him during days like this. This was no longer strictly appropriate—Mokuba was nearing puberty, after all; he wasn't a toddler—but the habit was nonetheless engrained.<p>

She smiled when Mokuba started humming a happy little song to himself as he chewed.

He spied Akiko, who grinned and gave him a little wave.

With virtually no prompting whatsoever, Seto leaned back in his chair, glanced up at the ceiling as though deep in thought, and said, "…The house looks like it's been abandoned. Not for long, though. It's still well-kept, but the lawn is overgrown."

Mokuba popped the spoon out of his mouth, set it back into his empty bowl, and leaned back in bed. "Is there a mailbox?" he asked, catching on immediately.

"There's a post near the sidewalk, splintered at the top, that might have _been _a mailbox. Probably taken off by a teenager with a penchant for fast cars and baseball bats."

"What about a car?"

"There's an old Ford Fairlane sitting off in the backyard, near a decrepit old oak tree. It's a big property, several acres behind the house."

Akiko realized what was going on, and thought it must be another tradition. Seto would probably claim it was a creative exercise to keep the boy's brain sharp even when he wasn't in school, but that was his way. Seto often had to disguise his own actions, both to others and himself, so as to hide the fact that sometimes he liked to have fun. It was like his own self-loathing had convinced him that he was no longer allowed to enjoy himself. He didn't deserve to smile, so he grimaced and put his nose to the grindstone and perpetually rubbed it raw.

"Do I hear anything?" Mokuba asked.

"White noise," Seto murmured. "Chirping, a distant echo of a barking dog. Brakes screech. Possibly someone's pet just ran out into traffic after a ball or a stick."

"What about from the house?"

"Nothing. Some creaking, but nothing out of place for such an old and tired building." Seto's voice was low, soothing, entrancing. Akiko reminded herself that the man was a performer at heart; it bled into everything he did.

"Creaking like from somebody walking around?" Mokuba wondered; his eyes were riveted on his sibling, bright and happy despite the haze of sickness. "Like maybe it's _not _abandoned?"

Seto shrugged. "…You're not sure," he said, lips sliding into a smirk.

"I wanna go inside!"

Yes. Seto would have called it an exercise. He would have said it was obligatory, would have layered over it with psychosocial jargon until it barely recognized anything a human might be caught doing, but Akiko could see the truth, playing out right in front of her.

Seto was telling his baby brother a story to make him feel better.

Eventually, the younger Kaiba drifted off into an exhausted sleep, and Seto stood up. He removed himself from his brother's sanctuary, and Akiko fell into step beside him as he haunted the hall. "You're quite the storyteller," she noted.

Seto smirked. He reached his office, then turned to look at her. "Thank you," he said. He wasn't referring to the compliment. "I've been looking for someone like you for some time now." Some people might have thought this sounded odd, or quaint, stalker-ish or even romantic, but Akiko didn't think it was any of these.

She shrugged. "…I really haven't _done_ much of anything, Seto-sama. Forgive me, but my presence really doesn't seem to have much of an effect on this…ahem…lofty estate of yours."

But Seto's smirk widened knowingly.

"Yes," he said decisively. "It does."

* * *

><p><em><strong>I don't often write Kaiba the Elder. Gozaburo is a fascinating presence to me, but he often serves better as a bitter memory than an active player. Here, I thought it prudent to place him in the quintessence of his element; that is to say, I think it is important to realize that Gozaburo was more than a tyrannical plot device to darken Seto's angst. He was a prolific and prodigious businessman in his own right.<strong>_

_**He was cruel, yes, but cruelty without intelligence does not a powerful man make. Gozaburo may have been a slave-driver, but if he'd never let Seto exercise his own authority, how would he have possibly made a good CEO? Gozaburo's motive for adopting Seto was, in my opinion, purely pragmatic. After all, he had to have seen potential in Seto, else he wouldn't have bothered. And he wouldn't have driven Seto so hard if he didn't expect results.**_

_**For better or worse, I contend that the Seto I present to you here is precisely what Gozaburo wanted to build. He didn't want obedience or submission; he wanted a Kaiba. And that's exactly what he got.**_


	51. I Have Become the Smile on Your Face

_**I experiment a lot. With voice, with narrative, with character. Ever since I started the "Good Intentions" series, it's been in my mind that enough time has passed since the end of the main series that the character dynamics have evolved, and it gives me the excuse to play with things a bit.**_

_**It's been mentioned before that it's odd, but interesting, that Seto and Joey are something vaguely resembling friends. From the word go, this has been the rule for me. It just made sense. But considering the series itself, it is kind of strange.**_

_**I finally decided I should figure things out. So I asked Joey about it.**_

_**This is what he had to say:**_

* * *

><p>You hear stories about "broken families." They like to use that word, professors and psychoanalysts and all those academic types. Broken. Like there's no fixing them. And maybe they got a point, when you stop and consider statistics.<p>

You hear about how abuse is cyclical, and how the abused grow up to be abusers. Child molesters? Molested. Guy who beats on his kid? Beaten. Neglectful mom? Neglected. It's the only world they know. It's the only way they know how to live. Now, I got a lot of sympathy for that way of doing things. Grew up in a broken home all my own. Dad, drunk so much it was a religion—thou shalt keep holy the fuckin' gin—and Mom? Don't get me started on Mom; I'll never stop. Bet you hear stories, 'cuz that's all this ends up turning into is stories, about how kids who get their ass handed to 'em on a regular basis—let's say they got a dad, like mine, talked with his fists, right? These kids, they end up hating their mom, the one who let it happen, more than they hate the one doing it. Guess I'm one o' those.

I hate my mother. Usually I don't have enough give-a-fuck in me to hate people, 'cuz I figure if they're low enough on my list to fit the bill for hatin', they aren't worth the time and effort to bother. Not Mom. Maybe some part of me still misses her, still wants her around. Just enough rainbow to make the truth sting like a bitch. Like—you eat sushi? Say you got yourself a roll. Good old California Roll, maybe, 'cuz you know. You're classy. And you dip just a tiny corner of it in soy sauce. Only the rice sucks up just a _little _too much. You can still taste the avocado 'n the crab flavor, you still got the rest o' the rice, and somehow that just makes the salt in the soy sauce that much more disgusting.

Whatever. So I suck at metaphors. But it's like that.

So yeah, I guess you could say I was abused. And I followed your standard trajectory. That the right word? Trajectory? I bet it isn't. Anyway, I pulled your typical shit. Skipped class, 'cuz what the fuck? Stole shit from convenience stores, got all up in that "urban violence" and shit. Oh, yeah, I was a prince. I buried myself in this shit, because why not?

See, that's how you get those people who flat-out hate their kids. Blame 'em for shit they didn't do. Like, say I was still in a gang, right? And I got into it with a girl, and she got pregnant. Let's say I'm saddled with a kid at fifteen, and I'm still this gutter-punk with a chip on my shoulder so big it's a goddamn slab. The fuck? Like I need this shit? What the—what a _bitch _for havin' a fuckin' kid in the first damn place, what's she thinkin'? And expectin' _me _to deal with it, too? Hey, I was in it for a free fuck, not a goddamn _life choice_.

I'd resent the hell outta that kid. With every little sniveling part of my arrogant, self-absorbed, hate-filled heart. Would I hurt him? Or her? Would I yell at my kid for ruinin' my life 'n saddling me with a job at a fucking convenience store instead of the _career _I had planned out?

Dunno. _My _dad did. So, probably. Seems destined. Only deal left in the deck at that point. What the hell else was gonna happen? You start thinkin' that way, you start puttin' the blame off the ones who did it. Off the dad who drinks himself stupid 'n breaks his daughter's wrist. Off the mom who screams her head off 'cuz her dim-as-a-coatrack son dropped a plate and broke it on the kitchen floor. Or whatever. Not like I got experience with this shit. What do I know?

And then…you get this guy. This fucking _guy, _who you hate for a long-ass time 'cuz he reminds you of the shithole your self-esteem used to be, and you think: what the fuck's his excuse? Yeah, sure, _I'm _an asshole, but I grew up in a neighborhood two foreclosures short of a landfill with a mom who hated me for not being the little girl she wanted and a dad who hated me 'cuz fuck him I don't _care _why. Here's this rich _fuck, _total silver-spoon preppy arrogant bitch. What the hell's he got to feel neglected about?

You know who I'm talkin' about. Don't act like you don't. You thought it, too. You've looked at his face on TV, all pissed off 'n ready to glare you straight into hell, and you think: what's his game? Where's he get off pretendin' like he's got _real _problems?

I know. I've been there.

But that's the thing about that guy. He's actually a classic case. Picture it: you ain't me, so you got a mom who knows how a mom's s'posed to act. Cheap shot, I know, let's start over. Say you got a mom who supports you. Smart, pretty, real classy. And say you got a blue-collar sorta dad. Just a good ol' boy, dresses in flannel an' blue-jeans. He ain't too bright, but he's a soldier. Just puts his head down 'n gets to _work, _by God.

And say, you're not too well off. Sure, you ain't starvin', but definitely not gonna get your face on tabloids any time soon. You aren't gonna rise through the ranks. And say Mom gets pregnant, and they're worried, Mom 'n Dad both, but you…well, hell, that's a new baby brother or sister! Ain't _that _somethin'?

They have the baby, but there's complications, and Mom…well, damn. Mom don't make it. Wouldn't figure there'd be a lot of that, death from childbirth in this day 'n age. But that's just how things go. Dad can't take it. Dad just drops off. He picks up another job, works from five 'til nine, don't talk to nobody. Who's gonna watch the baby? Who's gonna feed the baby, wash the baby, change the baby? No way you can afford a nanny. It's down to you.

Then, say _Dad _dies, because fuck you. Well, _now _what? Now, it's godparents. But, surprise! They're fuckwits. Inheritance? Psh, keep dreamin'. They need money to support you, you ungrateful little snot. Do you even _know _how hard it is to provide for you? Do you even know how much of an inconvenience it is to be saddled with your ass?

Ah—baby. Didn't forget the baby, did you? Yeah, he still needs things. Blankies and bah-bahs and all that jazz, and don't even think about asking anybody to change diapers for you. You think this is a hotel? Who's gonna teach the baby how to read? Not your godparents. They have their own problems, like the fact that they can't read in the first damn place.

Oh, it's just _so _hard. Too hard. There just isn't enough money to keep you. How are they ever going to afford a new car and a vacation to Miami if you're still around, mooching off them like some parasite? You selfish little—

Off to the orphanage with you! Off to a privately-run shithole with a director that fucking _hates _his job, and a bunch of traumatized, budding little sociopaths just waiting to show you how the hierarchy goes. What? Staff? Tch. What do you think _they're _going to do to help you? Can't you see how haggard they are? Their job is hard enough without you making demands for things like _safety._

And _then—_ready for this? You find your ticket out! It's the head-honcho of the free fucking world! This rich guy, coming over to your little orphanage to donate toys and blankets and things like that. Why, if _he _adopted you, surely it'd be easy street. Right? I mean, what else could the world honestly throw at you?

…How 'bout a cold-blooded tyrant? How 'bout a butler whose entire job in life is to beat you into shape?

Okay, so maybe this is all overwhelming. I'm sure as hell losing track of things. Let's recap, keeping in mind that I was talking about child abuse and how it's cyclical. Right?

So, Mom dies giving childbirth. Reason one to hate the baby.

Dad loses all semblance of stability and throws himself into his work, leaving you to pick up the pieces. Reason two to hate the baby.

Godparents can't afford to keep you but just can't stand the thought of separating you, so off you go to the orphanage. Reason three to hate the baby.

Older kids hate cutesy little brats and pick on him incessantly, stealing his toys and kicking sand at him; said cutesy little brat runs to you, and you have to put your neck out to protect him. Reason four to hate the baby.

You find your ticket out, and your new dad ends up being a fucking robot. He doesn't give a flying fuck about _the other one, _and you end up defending your sibling yet again, and you end up beaten, slapped, screamed at, driven to exhaustion, as punishment. Reasons five, six, seven, eight to hate the baby.

Throw all of that into a pot, and you've got a sure thing, right? Surely, that kid's gonna end up on the brunt end of some _serious _hurtin'. He ruined your fucking life! All the shit you've put up with has been because of, or for, him. How are you honestly gonna stop yourself from taking that out on him? I mean, seriously!

But you know what happened? With the guy who actually went through all that shit? He loves that baby. _Goddamn, _he loves that baby. He's traumatized, he's bitter, he's got PTSD comin' out his ears, he's pissed, he came out of that shithole tempered and fucking _furious, _but you know what? Still loves that baby.

Resentment? Jealousy? Exasperation? Hatred?

Battin' zero. Still loves that baby.

So, you ever wanna know why I let all the little shit slide now, why I don't get up in arms with him, why I'm comin' seriously, dangerously close to _liking _that arrogant son of a bitch? That's why. Because statistically, Seto Kaiba should have come out as the single-most abusive parent of his entire goddamn generation. He has every reason, justified or not, to smack the _shit _out of his kid brother…

And he doesn't. He loves that little guy so much it makes _my _heart ache.

Seto Kaiba—regardless of every goddamn thing I wanna punch his fucking teeth out for—broke the cycle. The world said, "I'm going to make you _hate _this kid, with every single, solitary, goddamn thing I have. There's no way you're ever going to love him."

And Seto Kaiba said, "Fuck you. Watch me."


	52. Light at the End of Your Tunnel

_**This piece was inspired by a quote that you'll find somewhere in the middle of the chapter, courtesy of the indomitable Stephen King and his nonfiction discourse on the horror genre, "Danse Macabre."**_

_**Sometimes I wonder where my brain goes when I write these two.**_

_**Maybe it's a mystery better left unsolved. After all, the mystery is one reason I keep coming back to this family. Maybe the same is true for you?**_

* * *

><p>It was sometime in 2003, late in the year, when Mokuba asked a dreaded question.<p>

"Niisama? Um…Santa Claus isn't real. Is he?"

Seto, for his part, had just been getting back into the saddle that was emotional equilibrium; which was to say, he hadn't yet gotten a full handle on his own sanity. It was a time after Pegasus Crawford; after Yugi Mutou. But, and perhaps this was the saving grace behind the whole sad, sorry thing, he hadn't yet been approached by a cultured, devious woman called Ishtar who carried a certain, blue-tinted card.

So he glanced at his brother, seven years old and looking so young and vulnerable that it set Seto's teeth on edge—he'd gained just enough perspective on past events that he blamed himself for all of them—and mulled on this for a second before he finally said, "You should check into that, Mokuba. I can't tell you."

"That means he _isn't _real," Mokuba deduced, looking proud of his grown-up reasoning but unable to hide the dejection in his little face.

"Does it?" Seto asked mildly, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

Pouting, the black-haired boy stuck his tongue out and said, decisively, "Yes. I am. You lied to me."

"I did no such thing," Seto said airily. "I have never once advocated nor dismissed the existence of Santa Claus."

"But you know the answer," Mokuba replied sharply. "So you're just not telling me. That's lying by admission."

Seto snickered slightly. _"Omission," _he corrected. "Lying by _omission. _That's very good, Mokuba. Seems you've caught me in a bind. So, let me ask you this: do you want me to tell you? Truly? Or do you want to figure it out on your own?" Mokuba started to answer, but Seto held up a hand. "Ah. Think about it, first. Sleep on it. If you decide that you want me to tell you the answer in the morning, then I'll tell you. But only then."

Mokuba pouted again, but he sighed, gestured dismissively, and left his brother's study in a huff.

Some years later, while Mokuba sat cross-legged on the floor of the game room putting an anime-themed jigsaw puzzle together—picture facing down, because he wasn't about to let Seto win _another _bet—he said, with his tongue stuck out one corner of his mouth as he studied the remaining pieces, "…Why did you get Mister Shircliff to dress up like Santa Claus? That one Christmas, when I wanted to know if he was real?"

Seto, who was leaning against the wall, watching his brother work, said, "Considering the plan you put in motion, it seemed a shame for you to come away with nothing."

"You lied to me," the boy said, less pouty and more…melancholy, than he'd been so long ago. "How come? You're the one who's always talking about how people need to grow up and face the truth and stuff. You set me back two years."

"'…So many adults have confused enlightenment with emotional and imaginational bank robbery,'" Seto said, with the air of a professor laying out age-old wisdom upon a pupil. Mokuba turned to stare at the man, tilted his head to the side, and looked thoroughly confused.

"Huh?"

"My job is to teach you," Seto said, shrugging, "but I have learned something through the course of my life. That is, most people seem convinced that the job of teaching involves throwing facts and figures at their children, hoping that if they fling them with force and conviction, enough will stick. And you'll grow up into a proper adult that way."

Mokuba frowned thoughtfully. "You don't think that way."

"I do not. I could have _told _you that Santa Claus is a cheap marketing trick gleaned from ancient folklore. I could have _told _you that all those presents believed were from some omnipotent grandfather were actually from me. Or, I could let you reach your own conclusion. Your mind is your own, Mokuba. It is not my job to mold it. My job is to show _you _how to mold it."

"You still lied. Why did you trick me?"

Seeing that there would be no edging past this point, Seto sighed. "You want the truth."

Mokuba nodded.

Another sigh. Mokuba quirked an eyebrow when his brother wouldn't look him in the eye. Instead, Seto stared almost wistfully out the door and across the hallway.

"You've always believed in magic. You used to search for the pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, and lay out treats hoping to catch a glimpse at a unicorn. You would have conversations with garden gnomes, convinced that there was a gnome council somewhere, and that you could help them usher in a new age of gnomish prosperity."

Mokuba's mouth fell open slightly. "…Seriously?"

"The world seems hell-bent on snuffing that out," Seto muttered darkly. "Like it's offended that someone like you could possibly, conceivably, believe such nonsense and be _happy _about it. I told myself I'd be damned before I was a party to that sick, stupid malevolence."

This clearly wasn't the answer Mokuba had been expecting; he looked guilty. He got up from the floor, walked over to his brother, and hugged him.

Seto ruffled Mokuba's hair, still staring down the hallway, and tried not to cry.

* * *

><p>…<em><strong>I swear, the first draft of this chapter was happy. Honest. But, unfortunately, it just didn't feel right. I have no excuses. Except it's probably Seto's fault.<strong>_

_**Yeah. I'll stick with that.**_


	53. Destruction is a Form of Success for You

_**It's been a long time since a scene popped into my head, fully formed, without the need for thought or planning. It's odd that such a scene would show up on Mother's Day, of all days, but I've long since grown out of questioning these things.**_

_**This was primarily inspired by the 2012 Tom Cruise movie, "Jack Reacher," inspired by Lee Child's series of novels (specifically "One Shot"). Not in any particular measure of plot or intrigue; more just in sheer badassery.**_

_**Not to say I'm a badass or anything. I let Seto handle that part for me.**_

_**See for yourself:**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>It was raining, and that was <em>just<em> what he needed.

Closing his eyes as he backed against the wet stone, Seto waited. Acclimated. Centered himself, and prepared for what he had to do. It wasn't going to be pretty, and it wasn't going to be easy unless he did it perfectly. The timing was everything.

He ran over everything in his mind again. From the first step to the seventieth. He felt sharp corners pressing up against his back, and smiled to himself. Always keep sensitive materials protected. Carrying the heavy metal case was a burden, but now that water was pelting down onto the cool silver surface like bullet casings, he felt vindicated.

He lifted up the case in his left hand, keeping his right free as he crept forward again.

He hadn't run into any of his target's security team, and he attributed that more to the overblown sense of confidence swelling Crawford's head than any ineptitude on the part of said security team, or particular expertise in stealth on the part of Seto himself. It was almost surprising just how short-sighted a man could be, once he thought he was all-seeing.

_Almost _surprising.

Seto flexed his right fist, feeling the sweet ache of blunt force trauma ghost-walking across his knuckles. He grinned. There was something satisfying about watching people cross lines. The best-case scenario was to keep people from crossing them at all, but vengeance wasn't a bad second-best.

He stopped moving, and straightened.

"We can do this two ways," came a low rumble, right up against the back of his right ear like a lover. "One way is easy." Seto mouthed the next trite line in this little script along with the new man's voice: "The other is hard."

_Cute, _Seto thought. _Almost quaint. _He slowly but smoothly slipped his right hand underneath the sopping wet cloth of his coat; he didn't have to hide the movement, because it was expected. His captor was confident, just like Crawford was, and was probably already congratulating himself for seeing his hand move. His captor thought it said something about his own observational skills.

"Think carefully, sir." He probably had a shit-eating grin on his face, because that was expected, too. "I'd hate to see someone as lofty and important as you get hurt. I'm a _lot _stronger than you are, and I'm pretty bad about holding back. I never did learn that lesson."

Seto sighed, and held out his arms.

"Good boy," Saruwatari said, and still managed to grin as a metal briefcase made acquaintance with his right cheekbone. The big man crumpled against the stone wall of the castle and fell in a heap.

Seto sighed again, straightened the collar of his shirt, and turned back around.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>He walked through the dungeon like he owned the place, his face noncommittally furious. His clothes dripped onto the floor in time with his stride, and he had to focus on the unpleasantness of his soaked body and clumped hair plastered against his forehead to keep himself from running. He sidestepped the camouflaged pressure plate that sounded the alarm.<p>

The briefcase, aside from housing his legal weaponry, made a surprisingly effective physical weapon as well. A great number of Pegasus Crawford's private security took involuntary naps on the job after knocking back the elder Kaiba's sharp-cornered, stainless steel sleeping pill.

He found the holding cell by following the congestion of the halls; the more bodies clogging the arteries of the castle, the closer he was. Seto thought that if his target hadn't so tragically underestimated his opponent, he might have tried at least one red herring, if not six. It would have been just like Crawford, in his prime, to corner Seto after sending him to a cell that was home to a stuffed rabbit or something.

Crawford was far from his prime; he had already fallen like a flamboyant Icarus, and would choke on his own flower-scented wax long before falling into the sea.

The boy was huddled in a corner, one leg shackled to the wall. He was dressed in the same jeans as the last time Seto had seen him, and the same shirt, except now both were coated in a uniform of grime. His sneakers were scuffed beyond recognition; only one was on its proper foot. The left was tossed against the opposite wall. He was holding a little locket in both hands like a priceless gemstone.

A sad little smile crossed the elder Kaiba's face, and his free hand reached to the spot on his chest, under his shirt, where that locket's twin lay a bare inch from his heart.

Seto stepped up to the cell almost jauntily. "I made you wait," he said.

Mokuba leaped halfway out of his skin, and his wide grey-violet eyes gleamed like swamp-lamps. His little throat worked madly as he wrestled with his own hopes. "...N-Niisama! _Niisama!"_

Seto's smile widened. "Keep your voice down, kiddo. We're not out of the woods yet."

Mokuba seemed to choke, as though his entire body were jumping to follow his savior's orders. He pushed himself forward onto his knees, and looked like nothing so much as a kneeling acolyte.

Seto set down his briefcase and bent to work at the cell's padlock.

Mentally, he counted: one. Two. Three.

On four, the voice of a red-sparkled devil rose up in the darkness: "Good evening, Kaiba-boy. What a surprise, finding you down here."

"The definition of a surprise runs completely counter to what this is, Crawford," Seto said flatly without looking at his antagonist. "You delight in playing word games. It's tantamount to playing with your food."

"Considering the tone of your voice," Crawford pouted, sounding hurt, "you don't want to play with me."

Seto whirled, sent a lightning-blast into the air, and watched with grim satisfaction as Pegasus Crawford fell backward; he landed spread-eagle on the floor, a neat and smoldering hole between his eyes.

The Millennium Eye, once so glistering, lay flat and insulting beneath the spider-web curtain of the man's silver hair.

By the time Seto opened Mokuba's cell, the remaining members of Crawford's team, including the man called Croquet, had found them. Before they could speak, Seto said: "I have video evidence of the deal your former employer made with my directors. I have a transcription of the phone call made to Adachi Saruwatari to deliver my brother to this island, and every other form of correspondence that has led to the scene in front of me. Every single one of you has been implicated in this farce seven times over." Seto held up a slim cellular phone. "I made sure to photograph the state you've kept him in. For good measure."

Croquet sneered. "And the rest of your...evidence?"

Seto choreographed a glance at the briefcase, because that was how it worked.

Croquet gestured. "Take it. _We _have more substantial evidence that you've murdered a man in cold blood, for no better reason than to keep a young boy safe."

Two hulking men stepped up from behind Croquet, and fell dead to the floor following the private thunderstorm of Seto's sidearm. "I've already sent every solitary piece of evidence to any authority in the country with a sliver of jurisdiction here."

Seto lifted his brother into his arms, kicked aside the briefcase, and smirked as he watched Croquet and his chess pieces surrounded by assault weapons and the booming shouts of sixteen agents from about seventeen agencies.

"Checkmate, you pretentious fucks."

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>The pod whirred to a stop like a fighter jet reaching the end of the runway, and as Seto opened his eyes again it was purring like a contented hunting cat. The visor lifted from his eyes, the cushions slid away from his ears, and he reached out on either side of the exterior shell as its glass shield swept away.<p>

He rose, lifting his legs slowly, and checked the screen built into the far south wall: it was well past 4 AM.

Seto tightened his tie, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and donned his coat. He walked slowly. By the time he made it back to the main house, it was after 5. In the kitchen on the ground floor, he found Mokuba foraging through the refrigerator in his pajamas, hunting for breakfast.

"You're up early," Seto muttered, and reprimanded himself for the errant banality of the observation. He hadn't properly slept in eighty hours; it was beginning to show.

Mokuba glanced at his brother and gave a crooked little smirk. "You're up late," he said. "What've you been doing?"

Seto stepped up to the boy and pulled him into a one-armed hug. "Out with the pods," he said, and ruffled Mokuba's hair before bending down and kissing the top of his head.

Mokuba smiled up at him; he was surprised by this display of affection, but not displeased. "Working on a new scenario?" he asked.

It was Seto's turn to smirk.

"...Something like that."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Ever wonder what Seto does to unwind? What he does when he's stressed out? I have. <strong>_

_**This chapter isn't to suggest that Seto even protects Mokuba in his downtime. More that he's obsessed with fixing past mistakes, so as to settle his mind. It just so happens that a lot of those mistakes have to do with Mokuba, and his protection.**_

_**Okay. So maybe Seto even protects Mokuba in his downtime.**_


	54. From Hate to the Black Hole

_**Remember last year, when I wrote the 40**__**th**__** chapter of this collection in response to the vitriol surrounding the release of Activision-Blizzard's Diablo III? Well, the game recently had its first anniversary, and the proverbial crapshoot opened itself up again, and my fury was made manifest in this.**_

_**I'm not entirely sure if it's hypocritical to hate negativity, but I do. The longer I live, the more I question the validity of hating things. I mean like, hating TV shows because they're "predictable," or hating books because they're "clichéd." I mean hating videogames because they're "disappointing."**_

_**If you don't like a show, turn it off. If you don't like a book, put it down. If you don't like a videogame, replace it. Yelling at the people who made it, and demeaning the people who like it, solves nothing. It creates more problems, for everyone involved.**_

_**As is typical when I find myself angry, I used Seto as my mouthpiece.**_

_**His performance was nothing short of masterful this time, I think.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Mister Kaiba…what <em>was <em>that?"

Seto stood out in the parking lot of a structure that encapsulated everything he had ever wanted to do with his life, looking ready to lay waste to it. He watched Helen Aarden approach him like he was wondering whether he had a good enough excuse to rip her face off and eat it.

Seto gestured to the building. _"That,_ was me refraining from committing a felony."

Helen frowned. "I know _Gambit _is your brother's pet project, Mister Kaiba, but you can't take offense at every little thing people say about it." She sighed. "I know we've gotten more bad press over this game than any other in Kaiba-Corp's history. But that's the nature of the industry, Mister Kaiba. You know that. You know it better than any of us."

"…You know that I don't play our own products," Seto said slowly, after a while. "Specifically, I don't play the products with which _I _am involved. You may have noticed that I had nothing to do with _Gambit. _I told Mokuba that he would have free reign to call the shots this time, and I meant it. I _did _play _Gambit. _Do you know what I found? There, in that game my brother was in charge of making? A masterpiece. Something on which I would have been rather absurdly proud to put my name."

Helen looked like she was wrestling with the desire to say of course, sir, _you_ thought it was a masterpiece! Your _brother's_ name was on it! But she thought back on other games in which Mokuba had had a hand, and just how often Seto called Mokuba into his office to coach him on how to fix his mistakes. Seto was, if anything, harsher with Mokuba than with anyone else, specifically _because_ he was fighting a natural bias in the boy's favor.

Helen hung her head slightly. "…I know, Mister Kaiba. I think so, too. I'm just trying to be realistic. For whatever reason, a lot of people disagree with us on this one. Vehemently, and vocally. Where we saw efficiency, they saw complacency. Where we saw innovation they saw betrayal. I don't know if it's because you weren't in charge or because they knew that an eleven-year-old boy _was, _but sometimes…sometimes this happens."

"Not like this." Seto was chewing on his words, grinding them between his teeth, before speaking them. "Do you think I don't know this? Do you think I don't understand that sometimes people take your work for granted? That sometimes you put everything you have into a project only to watch it drown? I know _all _of that. There's a reason that the first game from us that anyone ever talks about is _Moon Jump 2. _It's because everything we put out before that game either flopped, or gained cult status for a while before vanishing. For years, I saw each and every one of my dreams crushed, and stomped into the dirt, by every professional outlet that bothered to look at me. All I had to go on was the support of a ragtag group of people who bought those products in spite of bad press. The people I was trying to reach. _My _people."

"It's no different now, sir," Helen said, gently. "I know it isn't fair. I saw just how much Mokuba put into this project. I saw everything that you did. I _know_ this isn't right. But there isn't anything that we can do about it now. I know you. You aren't going to change your brother's game to appease these people."

"You're _goddamned right _I'm not changing it." Seto drew in a shuddering breath that did nothing to calm him. "Now 'my people' are crying for Mokuba's head, and they somehow think I'm going to appreciate it." Seto's eyebrows raised. "And can I tell them that I _don't? _Can I tell them I want to feed them their own teeth? No. Because I have to be _professional."_

Something dawned in Seto's face.

Helen flinched.

The elder Kaiba disappeared back into the auditorium, with his characteristic stride.

"…Oh, _no."_

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>Seto returned to his place, far off in one corner of the stage, just as Mokuba took the podium.<p>

He watched his brother and felt his heart simultaneously break and explode. When the boy spoke, Seto wondered if he would be able to contain himself long enough.

Mokuba cleared his throat and said, "…My team and I did our best to make a game that we enjoy playing. We did our best to make a game that our customers would enjoy playing. That's our job. I realized over the past couple months that, for a lot of people who bought the game, we haven't done that. _Gambit _is a black spot on the reputation of the Kaiba Corporation. I was in charge of this game. It's my job to take responsibility for it.

"So I will. I'd like to announce, here in front of you all, that right now, I'm resigning from my position as Game Director for _Gambit_. I'm not cut out for this yet. I haven't learned enough, or grown enough. I'd also like to announce that my position at our new development house, KC Kairos, will be given to Miss Kelly Holstead. We all feel she'll be a better fit for the company than I am right now. For all of you hoping for the same stroke of genius from me as you've gotten from my brother, and were disappointed, I apologize. I'll come back when I'm older, and know how to better serve our community." He waited a moment. Then he said, "Thank you."

Seto actually saw the smarmy, sardonic smirk on the face of the first person who applauded. It started slow, but quickly grew in strength and volume until each slap of hand on hand was like a road spike being driven straight into his skull.

Mokuba turned away and gestured for his brother to take his place, managing to hide the tears running down his face from the crowd, but no one else.

Seto stepped up to the podium.

Someone lifted a hand, after the din had quieted, and Roland gestured. "Oliver West, with _Game Frontier," _he said."I think I speak for all of us when I say that it's really refreshing to hear someone take responsibility for the…ahem, unfortunate fate of _Gambit. _I also think I speak for all of us when I say that we're anticipating _your _next project. What lies ahead for the Kaiba Corporation?"

Seto closed his eyes. Drew in a deep breath. Let it out.

"…Nothing," he said flatly. "Nothing but a steaming pile of shattered dreams and disappointment. I am going to turn my company into a churning assembly line. I am going to release unfinished products, then I'm going to hide behind pointless jargon when I'm called on it. I am a money-grubbing, profit-mongering, soulless manipulator that doesn't care about my loyal customers. It's all about the bottom line now, folks. Leave your wallets at the door. We'll get _back _to you."

Dead silence.

Thousands of people sat, stunned. The man who'd asked the question went deathly pale. "Um…uh…Mister Kaiba?"

Seto raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted honesty. Did you not put those exact words in my mouth, not four weeks ago, on your weekly column, Mister West? I believe it was called 'Kaiba's New Gambit: Profit First, Polish When I Feel Like It.' Didn't you say that you just wish _someone _would admit it? Congratulations. I just did."

Seto put on an innocent face and waited a moment while West fumbled over his words. "Uh…ahem. I, uh…that was…tongue-in-ch—"

"I am about to say something entirely unprofessional," Seto thundered, his microphone working splendidly, "and I would very much appreciate it if you quote me. Send it around the entire internet if you can. Let the _world_ know what I'm going to say next."

He waited, as was his way, until every eye was locked on his face.

"Fuck you."

There was a collective intake of breath, but no one, not even Roland, dared even look sideways. Mokuba, whose back was to the crowd, stiffened.

Seto continued, in a deadened voice: "To anyone who is 'sorely disappointed' in the game my brother's team created, but still plays it. To those 'concerned' about the future of the Kaiba Corporation while they continue to support it. And particularly to anyone who _cheered _at the removal of one of my most trusted and talented employees from a position for which he worked harder than any _other_ employee I have: fuck you. I hope you're happy now. I just lost one of my most valuable assets, and you're sitting here asking me what's next. _I don't fucking know. _I built this corporation with my brother_, _and you just drove him out of my building. All of you. Every single one of you that sat here and _bitched _and _whined _and _made demands _because you couldn't wrap your heads around the fact that you aren't in charge of making our products, and that the only definitive choice you have is to _buy it_ or _don't. _Every single one of you who sat by and _let this slide. _Every single one of you who made snarky, immature, debasing little comments whenever we tried to reach out to the community with something lighthearted and fun, saying that if only we put this much time and effort into _Gambit, _maybe it wouldn't be the pus-filled _cesspool_ that it is. To everyone who spat on an eleven-year-old boy's untold attempts to act like an adult, and give you what you keep crying for like sniveling little _brats._ _You _drove my brother out of his dream job. _You _drove out my partner."

Seto sneered, waited, then smirked.

"In about an hour, the blogosphere will explode. People will say that I shouldn't be surprised. That I should just do my job and not pay attention. That it isn't my place to respond to this kind of bad press in such an unprofessional manner. I'm not _allowed _to speak my mind. This is all just a part of the gaming industry, and that my bias in my brother's favor led me to such a horrendous faux pas. People will say that the Kaiba Corporation is dead, and that I killed it. That I let a child take the helm to make a _videogame, _and that I should have known better. No one will feel the need to mention that children have been in charge of making our games for years. That I was appointed the Chief Executive Officer at fifteen years old. No one will bother to wonder whether this smear campaign might be at least partially _their _fault, crying for a child's blood because they didn't get _exactly_ what they wanted. Because they _paid _their sixty dollars and they _deserve _to be catered to. You people paid for the right to play our game, _not _to wave your hands and command us. _We _make our games, and _you _either buy them or you don't. That's _it. _But…that's not how it works for you, does it? You'll hold me accountable for what I have said today, and take no responsibility for the flagrant disrespect you've _leveled _on my team since day one. You have been spitting at us, demanding changes, threatening and howling and declaring war on us, for months now. But I, and my people, my designers and my community managers and my representatives, and my brother, must remain professional, polite, and pleasant."

He sneered again, with fire in his eyes.

_"Fuck _you."

No one applauded as Seto removed himself from the podium, and stalked away.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Where is your brother?"<p>

Seto lifted his eyes to face the men and women sharing his office with him, and raised an eyebrow. "That, I am afraid, is none of your goddamned business," he rumbled. "My brother no longer has an active project at this point in time, in case you haven't heard. He has no reason to be in this building, or to interact with any of you. Any and all further correspondence with him will either go directly through me, or it will not happen. Furthermore, the next person to speak to me in that tone will have his or her face surgically restructured by whatever blunt instrument I happen to find most readily available."

Helen Aarden flinched. "…My apologies, sir. That wasn't meant to be antagonistic."

Seto stared at her, seemed to calculate something, then just slumped back in his chair and laughed. "I wonder how many times my brother has been summarily eviscerated in the past six months by streams of vomit that capped themselves off with 'That wasn't meant to be antagonistic.'"

"…And how, exactly, is that _our _fault?" someone else asked.

Seto's eyes lit with fire. He seemed to be actively reeling in a desire to vault over his desk. "It's not. Congratulations for catchingmy error. As a prize, allow me to gift unto you an extended vacation. Right now. Get the _fuck _out of my building."

"Mister Kaiba—"

"Get. _Out._ Before I make your death look like an accident."

"Damn it, Mister Kaiba, you're acting just as childish as your brother is! What the _hell _did you want us to do, intercept every complaint before he got his _feelings _hurt? You've already made every single one of us look like a _fucking_ _joke _today! The least you could do is not _treat _us like one!"

Helen's eyes went narrow. "Lee. That's enough."

"No! It's not! This is _bullshit!"_

Roland Ackerman drew out his sidearm, but did not aim. "Do not continue to cause a scene in this office, Lee."

"Okay, okay, enough," Helen said, holding out her hands, and possibly saving Lee Scott's life in the process. "Damn it, _enough. _This is turning into nothing more than a pissing contest. Lee, have you ever heard of reading the temperature of a room? You're not arguing with the CEO of the Kaiba Corporation right now. You're arguing with the legal guardian of a child who was just traumatized out of this building by people _we _are supposed to manage. Have you ever _met _Mokuba Kaiba? It takes more than 'hurt feelings' to rattle him."

"That still doesn't excuse—"

"I'm not _saying _it excuses hi—"

"I'm leaving." Seto stood up, grabbed his coat, and tossed it over a shoulder. "I'll be working from home next week. Mister Scott, your honesty and bravery are to be commended. But if you don't _shut your_ _fucking mouth, _I am going to take your continued behavior as a direct threat to my brother's health and well-being."

"He's not even here!"

"…I would remind you that the last person to pose a direct threat to my brother's health and well-being is currently rotting in a mausoleum."

Seto tossed the man against a wall, and vanished.

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Your, ah…latest performance is already a meme, Seto-sama." Akiko glanced down at a small, spiral-bound notebook in her left hand. "'To anyone who ordered chicken the last time they visited a steakhouse: fuck you.' 'To anyone calling global warming a hoax while still going to church: fuck you.'" She snickered. "And my personal favorite: 'To anyone who is 'sorely disappointed' in the state of rock music, but still listens to Nickelback: fuck you.'"<p>

Seto hung up his coat and allowed himself to chuckle. "My life is now complete."

"Niisama…?" Mokuba stood in the doorway on the opposite end of the parlor, looking embarrassed but stern. Seto quirked an eyebrow. "Why did you do that?"

"You know why."

"Niisama, I—you shouldn't have—people are going to think…" Mokuba struggled to find words, and eventually gave up, shaking his head and staring at the floor. "You don't care what people think."

"In this particular case, I care very much what people think," Seto said matter-of-factly. Mokuba frowned at him. "I want them to think I'm unprofessional. I want them to think I'm biased. I want them to think I'm angry. I treat people as they deserve to be treated. If sales plummet thanks to this stunt, I might finally find some respect for our customers again. As it is, I hate them all and hope they meet with crippling misfortune."

Mokuba looked ready to cry for frustration. "Niisama, you—you can't _do_ that! They've already lost faith in me. Our customers _and _our employees don't trust me. They can't lose you, too."

Seto regarded his brother for a moment, calmly. "Mokuba, do you remember the first game our company published?"

"…_The Adventures of Laser-Dragon."_

"Do you remember who came up with it?"

"I did."

"Do you remember who made it?"

"You did."

Seto spread out his hands. "We can make games without employees, and without customers. But without us, our employees have no jobs, and our customers have no products. They need us. We don't need them. It's high time everyone remembered that."

"…You're not quitting too, are you?"

"No. But only because I'm a neurotic insomniac with nothing better to do with my life."

The smallest of smiles finally graced the young Kaiba's face. "You did it so people would be so busy yelling at you, they'd stop yelling at me."

Seto removed his tie with a jerking motion that betrayed his residual anger. "That would imply that I was protecting you. When have I ever done that?"

"That doesn't sound like you," Akiko put in gravely.

Seto shrugged. "I know. It's ridiculous."

"Completely out of character."

Mokuba sighed. "I guess that's also why you're home early."

"I am home early so as to avoid a massacre," Seto said, and Mokuba suddenly looked fearful. "I very nearly strangled my chief development team with their own entrails."

The fear vanished. "…Oh. I thought you meant—well. Never mind. I guess. I don't know! I don't know what to think right now, Niisama!"

"Think whatever you like," Seto said idly. "Other people don't have control over your thoughts, Mokuba. You don't have to answer to them."

"No. _You _don't have to answer to them. _You _can ignore it. I…I…"

"You're learning. Unfortunately, I can't help you with this lesson. The best I can do is this. I can turn this into a grandstand, because I'm theatrical and everybody expects it of me. People will be angry for a while, then they'll start talking about it, and they'll start wondering why the hell I didn't do it sooner. Then they'll start talking about what I _usually _do when people attack you, and they'll wonder how they're still alive. Then they'll start talking about how they treated you, and they'll wonder why. _Then _they'll stop yelling at you."

Akiko, having slipped up against a wall to serve as a purely background observer, smiled.

"I was trying to handle this professionally. Like you keep saying I should. I was trying to be adult about it."

"You were. And it will only stand out more, compared to the way _I _acted. I'm a performer, Mokuba. I have a reputation to uphold. My reputation was built on fear and arrogance, and I'll be damned if a few years of 'growing up' is going to ruin that." Seto grinned his signature, shark's grin. "People aren't afraid of me anymore. I intend to change that."

Then the grin softened.

"…And if I get to stick up for my little brother at the same time, well, that's just added incentive."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Blizzard has community managers, called "Blues" because of the blue text that marks their messages, on their forums. A few of them are known to get snarky with people, if they get uppity.<strong>_

_**Often, these managers are called to task for being unprofessional. They shouldn't act like that, because their job is to be polite, helpful, and professional; and if someone attacks them, they should just ignore it. It isn't their place to be hostile to their customers.**_

_**I say balls to that. I celebrate those people who hand out some of what they're dished. Let the community know how it feels. I applaud it. I revere it. I very nearly worship it.**_

_**This chapter shows why. Not because it's professional, or because it's effective, or because it should be said. In a perfect world, professionals shouldn't respond like this. But we don't live in a perfect world. The gaming community is getting more and more spoiled and bitchy as time goes on, and I'm getting rather sick of it. So I support those few developers with the cojones to lash out every once in a while.**_

_**Because damn it, that's the definition of catharsis.**_


	55. With a Sad Statue

_**So this is an odd one.**_

_**Have you ever been lying in bed, after midnight, and there are no lights on? Anywhere? Everything is pitch black, and you're just lying there waiting for unconsciousness? Well, I usually listen to something to get to sleep. I used to be able to get by with music, but that changed for some reason.**_

_**Now, I can only abide by spoken-word. A podcast, audiobook, YouTube video, something like that. Last night, I opted for a podcast. I ended up listening to an episode about Creepypasta (a catch-all term for urban legends which originated online, like Slenderman). One story in particular hit me. Hard.**_

_**TL;DR: don't listen to scary stories in the dark while attempting to sleep.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"…Okay, okay, I got one. I got one. So this mom 'n dad, they've got two kids, right? And they're your typical kids, y'know, so they get kinda wild sometimes. So these parents, they decide they need a break, and they're gonna head out for a night on the town. Maybe catch a movie, go dancing, drinking."<p>

The ground floor of the Turtle Game Shop was dead quiet, without a single light on, except for the incandescent glow of the laptop computer in Joey Wheeler's lap, and the ambient light of a nearby street-light outside. Surrounding him at the card table where he sat, Yugi Mutou, Téa Gardner, Mokuba Kaiba and Connor Brinkley sat silently, leaning toward the blond with the kind of excited apprehension that could only come from a good, old-fashioned scare-fest.

The two children—dressed in pajamas and sitting wrapped in their respective blankets—were particularly engrossed. This had more than a little to do with just how casually Joey was telling the story. He wasn't trying to frighten his audience; he was just…talking.

"So they call their babysitter. It's this older kid from the apartment complex down the street, she's a good sort. You know the kind. She's the good, homespun kinda girl you'd expect to see on the next season o' _Glee _or something. Now, they don't even call her until the kids are asleep, so the babysitter's gonna have a pretty easy time o' things. She's just gotta be around just in case something happens."

Joey leaned back, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before sweeping his eyes across the others.

"So the babysitter shows up, Mom 'n Dad head on out, and things go fine for a while. She gets bored, though. I mean, this is a teenager, sitting around wondering whether she's gonna get some free money or if one o' the little monsters is gonna wake up. So she decides she wants to watch some TV. But the thing is, she can't watch anything downstairs 'cuz there's no cable hooked up down there. These're responsible parents, right? Don't want the kids watchin' too much garbage. So she calls the parents' cell phone. Sees if she can watch somethin' in their bedroom."

A slow sort of smile spread across Yugi's face.

"So Dad picks up, says there's no problem with that. Go right on ahead. She heads into the bedroom, and before she hangs up she's got one more question: she wants to know if she can't go out into the backyard 'n cover the angel statue outside with a sheet or something. It makes her nervous. I mean, wouldn't it make _you _nervous?"

Connor frowned at this, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Joey's face went completely stone-set. "…Dad's quiet for a second. Then he says, 'Get the boys. Get out of the house. We'll call the police.'" He waited a beat. "'We don't own an angel statue.'"

Connor's frown flipped into a smirk.

"The police found the kids and the babysitter, in pools o' their own blood, three minutes after the phone call. They never found any statue."

Then he looked around, and his eyes caught on something.

"…What the f—!"

All eyes followed Joey's, and locked dead-center on the angel statue sitting outside the glass door in front of the store.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the laughter finally died down, and Connor was done making faces at Joey and Tristan—who had found the (Styrofoam) statue at a yard sale, and had been waiting outside to plant it—that they all noticed one member of their party was silent.<p>

"C'mon, Moku-man, that was good," Joey said, chuckling. "Gimme _somethin', _wouldja?" When silence was his only response, Joey's voice suddenly turned serious. "Turn on the lights." Nobody moved for a second. "Turn on the _fucking _lights."

Tristan did.

Before anyone else had a chance to think of anything to say, Joey was beside his young friend. "Hey," he murmured. "C'mon, Champ. Look at me. Hey. Look at me. You cool, man? C'mon, it was just a story. Hey. _Hey."_

Mokuba finally blinked, looked around, and let out a slow, unsteady breath. He saw Connor, staring at him, and something transformed in his face. He manufactured a smile onto his face. "S-Sorry. You guys, ah…got me good. That, ah…that one…yeah. That was a good one, Joey." He looked over at Tristan, still half-haunted, and flashed a thumbs up. "You, too, Tristan."

The blond shared a look with the others before saying, "…Yeah. Well, y'know, I have my moments. You sure you're okay?" He put an arm around Mokuba's shoulders and pulled him close; an instinctive gesture, made without thought.

Mokuba nodded. "Yeah. I'm cool."

But—and this did not go unnoticed by any of the others—the young Kaiba made no real effort to move.

* * *

><p><em><strong>This story, while told with a couple of liberties for the sake of Joey's voice, is called "The Statue." You can find it pretty easily on the Creepypasta Wiki, but for the most part, it's exactly as Joey told it.<strong>_

_**I just wanted to share it, and this is the best way I know how.**_

_**I don't know the original creator of this story; but all credit goes to him or her.**_

_**It's a simple story, but sometimes those are the most effective. Particularly when it comes to horror.**_

_**Au revoir.**_


	56. Carry the Blessed Home I

_**Welcome to something new for "Blue Eyes, Violet Eyes."**_

_**For the next five chapters, I'm going to be telling one narrative. Each chapter will continue where the last left off. Of course, this wasn't the initial idea for this story as you well know. I have the core story for that. But I couldn't think of another way to work out this particular idea. My options were to write the whole thing in one super-long chapter. I didn't want to take quite that long. Or, I could write a whole new story. I didn't want to do that either, as the Good Intentions universe already has three stories attached to it. Or, I could do this.**_

_**So here we are. This story sets up what we're going to be doing for the next handful of updates. You'll see the return of a couple of characters that I made up a while back, but haven't figured out how to use again.**_

_**Now I have.**_

_**Shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Thank you for agreeing to meet me."<p>

The woman seated across the desk from him chuckled in a self-deprecating way and turned her eyes away. "You paid for my trip down here, Mister Kaiba. I couldn't very well refuse."

Seto's lips curved upward slightly. "Your real name is Megan, is it not? Megan Howell? May I use it, or would you prefer I call you 'Madam?'" He was strangely, almost archaically polite.

The woman known throughout the blogosphere as "Madam Why" was lucky enough to have met and interviewed a number of new-age celebrities over the course of her…well, she hesitated to call it a career, though it was fast becoming one. She remembered her talk with Wil Wheaton with particular fondness.

But she'd never met a celebrity quite like the man seated in front of her. For one, Seto Kaiba was _young._ In person, it was almost pitifully obvious how young he was. His stage presence bespoke relentless control and tight-woven charisma, and it was difficult to see it; but here, in his private office, during a private meeting…

It was almost like he'd cultivated a brand new personality for this.

"Go ahead and call me Megan," she said, idly thinking that he could call her anything he damn well pleased; something else that was hard to notice about him when he was performing was just how _cute _he was.

Good Lord.

"Thank you," Seto said, and Megan noted with some amount of amusement that he didn't reciprocate the favor by inviting her to call him "Seto." Some things _did _cross over from his stage personality to his personal one.

"If you don't mind my asking, I have to assume that you had a very specific reason for flying me out here to Domino City. I hope I don't sound rude, but it'd be nice to know why."

Seto's ghost of a smile came into view just a little bit better; he seemed to appreciate this. Megan remembered long discussions with this man's brother about how to handle him. She was glad for those discussions now. She knew what to look for.

"Of course," Seto said, and stood up. "First, I wanted to talk to you about your relationship with my brother."

A lightning bolt crashed into the base of Megan's skull, and she was suddenly terrified. Thoughts of various comments—"You're over thirty! What are you doing hanging around with a little boy?" "Cradle-robbing is supposed to be a metaphor!" "Why haven't you been arrested yet, freak?"—she'd received over the course of the past couple of years flashed in front of her eyes, and it suddenly occurred to her that Seto Kaiba was a famously protective guardian. You didn't get to Mokuba Kaiba without getting through this man first, and so far, Mokuba was still safe and healthy, and a number of prominent, powerful people had fallen off the face of the planet.

Megan often wondered how many people _had _made a target out of her young friend and, on the heels of that, how many of them were no longer living.

Seto must have sensed her sudden dread, because he smirked at her, but it was a friendly sort of smirk. However that was possible. "Trust me. If I had a problem with it, you'd already be in prison. You're not on trial, Megan. Part of my job, if I'm to be a responsible brother, is to meet his friends. He certainly counts you among that rather exclusive group."

Megan relaxed…sort of.

"How did you meet?" Seto asked, sitting on the corner of his desk. He was positively conversational; relaxed, confident, accommodating.

"I was, um…well, I guess I was just messing around one day, and got it into my head to look up a speed run of _Super Mario World. _The old Super Nintendo game. Right? So I'm just browsing, and I click on a video kind of on accident, and I start watching. Then I notice someone's commentating over the gameplay. Obviously, somebody young. I guess I was just intrigued, so I kept watching."

Seto was nodding. "His first project," he mused.

"Yeah. I was surprised to hear that, you know, once I started getting into this whole 'Let's Play' subculture. 'Cuz I started noticing that other people, even the really big names, usually started off all nervous and stiff. But Wonder, he was…well, he was like a professional. Y'know? So when I decided _I_ wanted to get in on this, I thought I'd send him an email, ask some questions. What capture card should I get? Where could I find an inexpensive microphone? Stuff like that."

Seto mouthed the name "Wonder."

"None of us found out he was famous for, like, six months," Megan said. "I mean, no self-respecting gamer doesn't know Kaiba-Corp. You guys are legends. So you can imagine how surprised I was—we all were—when Wonder starts doing face-cam, and we all find out, well, okay, not only is he the most adorable little thing ever filmed, but—he's _the _Mokuba Kaiba! Like, _wow, _right?"

Seto chuckled. Megan wasn't sure if that meant she was doing well or not.

He murmured, "Right," and stood up again.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You talk to…Wonder, outside of projects. Don't you?"<p>

He wasn't used to referring to his brother as anything but his name. Yet somehow, it just didn't seem right to use that name with this woman. It struck Seto that the person sitting in his office, nervous and jumpy and excited and God only knew what else, wasn't just a friend of Mokuba's. She was a business associate. A partner. A colleague. The identity, the presence, the _enterprise_ that was Wonderboy996 was something to which Seto would always be a background observer; whereas Megan "Madam Why" Howell was a front-runner.

After years and years of catering his personality such that Niisama would approve of him, Mokuba was finally branching out and developing his own identity. It had started some time ago, when he'd made friends with Yugi Mutou, Joey Wheeler, and Tristan Taylor; and it had strengthened with the advent of Rebecca Hawkins and Connor Brinkley.

But here, in front of him, was proof that Mokuba Yagami Kaiba was the master of his own destiny.

It made Seto both proud and…well, melancholy. His baby brother was growing up. Sure, he was only eleven, and still relied on his Niisama for a great many things, but he hadn't asked his brother to join him on this journey into internet stardom. Not once had Mokuba ever suggested that Seto join him on an episode, even when he played one of the games Seto himself had designed.

Was he jealous of this woman, who collaborated with Mokuba on a great number of projects? Was he jealous of the following Mokuba had cultivated online, people Seto didn't know and had only _seen _once?

Seto didn't know; what he did know was that it didn't matter.

He decided that he could trust Megan Howell.

"Yes," Megan said, and Seto remembered that he'd asked her a question. "We talk. Sometimes on Skype, sometimes through email. You know, whatever. He talks about you a lot." A cheeky little smile rose on her face. "I've been toying with the idea of getting him a WWND bracelet."

Seto snickered. "What would Niisama do?" he mumbled. "Well, somehow I doubt he's gone into much detail, but…my brother's had a rough year." He felt like calling the boy "my brother" was a good compromise, instead of calling him by name or by handle.

_And it establishes that no matter how good a friend this woman is, he still belongs to you._

The darkest part of Seto, the selfish part, the self-serving narcissist, always ended up sounding like Gozaburo. Seto grimaced, took up the coffee mug sitting on his desk, and sipped at it. Strong, hot black tea seared the nasty taste from his mouth. He glanced at Megan. "Would you like something?" he asked, remembering common etiquette. "A drink, something to eat?"

"Oh, no, thank you," Megan said, waving dismissively. "Um…how do you mean, if you don't mind my asking?"

Seto flinched; not violently, but noticeably. He glanced upward, off to one side, wondering how much he should say. Eventually he decided on: "…He takes on responsibilities and stresses that he shouldn't. And because he handles them well, we fall into the trap of expecting him to…grow, and adapt, on an adult level. As he rises to each challenge, our expectations rise with him. Such that I suspect even _he's _forgotten that he's eleven years old."

Megan frowned studiously. "…You said 'we.' And 'our.' Do you mean to say that _you're _guilty of this, too?" A beat. "Sir?"

Seto raised a sardonic eyebrow. "…I'm the worst offender."

"Wonder thinks the world of you. If you've been watching his channel, you know that. You've probably known that for years. And if you're the reason he's already such a professional…well, I mean, I'm sure he's grateful for it."

Seto scowled. He wanted to say, _It's also my damn fault he's grateful for it!_

Again…Gozaburo.

Still, the look on his face was more than enough to get his point across, because Megan immediately added: "I'm sorry, I'm sure you know all this already. You _raised _him, of course you know. But I mean…is it really so bad? He loves what he does. You can tell with public speakers, when they're into it. Wonder's into it."

"Be that as it may," Seto said, "the stress is getting to him. He's anxious, tired, and whatever passes for irritated in his happy little head." He was never quite able to remain angry when the subject at hand was Mokuba's accomplishments; pride always pushed its way to the front of the line.

Megan smiled. "Is that why I'm here, sir?"

"In a sense." Seto stood up and rounded his desk. "I'm looking for alpha testers for a personal project of mine." He slipped into a third personality entirely; one that was all business, only business.

"That's right," Megan said, nodding. "You mentioned that over the phone. What sort of project is it?" She leaned forward in her chair. "A game, I'm assuming? Games are my business."

Seto smirked. "Of course. Do you have any experience with pen-and-paper role-playing?"

Seto remembered, without any sort of difficulty, the expression he'd had on his face, on the day he'd first approached the Big Five with the idea to oust the old Kaiba-sama in favor of a new one. They had asked him if he was sure he could handle such a heavy responsibility.

He was sure that that expression had looked exactly like the one Megan Howell put on now.

"Yes, sir," she said, but there was a twinkle in her eyes that belied the perfunctory reply. _"Call of Cthulhu, Pathfinder, Monsters and Other Childish Things. _Been doing it for years. Started in high school."

Seto's smirk returned, stronger than before. "Good to hear."

"So you're working with something like that? Is Kaiba-Corp making a pen-and-paper game? That'd be _awesome."_

"Not quite," Seto said. "You see, I created the prototype for a new gaming platform some years ago. I hesitate to call it a console. A number of these prototypes have been made. We've taken to calling them the Tunnels. I trust you've seen _The Matrix." _Megan nodded. "Think of jacking in. Except without the probe in the back of the head. We use a specialized pod and helmet."

Megan leaned in closer. "You…you're talking about virtual reality, aren't you?"

Seto nodded slowly. "For all intents and purposes, yes."

Megan started to speak again, then leaned back and laughed in a resigned way. "…Of course. Obviously."

"Mokuba enjoys these sorts of campaigning games. I don't often have the chance to run them for him. He plays with a group of friends on weekends. I've decided to do something…different. I'm making this an official test of concept for a new game."

"…You want us to play a virtual LARP."

"Yes."

"That's…all I needed to hear." Megan laughed. "Sign me up."

* * *

><p><em><strong>For the uninitiated, LARP stands for "Live-Action Role-Playing," which involves actually going out to a particular place with a group of people, with costumes and (hopefully) fake weapons, and acting out the storyline that you'd normally find in a pen-and-paper RPG like Dungeons &amp; Dragons.<strong>_

_**Megan "Madam Why" Howell first showed up in Chapter 36: "Away from the Mucky-Muck." I was talking about the idea that Mokuba makes "Let's Play" videos on YouTube. Madam Why is one of his collaborators.**_

_**I'd like to take a moment to mention that I've actually started my own YouTube channel. I've started a Let's Play series of my own. I'm playing World of Warcraft as my first project, and I'd seriously appreciate it if anyone who's reading this, who is interested in the Let's Play movement, to take a look at my video. I'm on YouTube under my pen name, so just look for Iced Blood. You'll find me. There's a link to my channel on my profile, if you'd rather take the direct approach.**_

_**Hope to see you there!**_

_**See you for the next installment.**_

_**Have a fantastic day.**_


	57. Carry the Blessed Home II

_**Ever since I started playing tabletop roleplaying games, it's been a thought of mine that the perfect medium for the genre's evolution is virtual reality. Sure, we haven't exactly reached that level yet, the level we see in fiction. Specifically, this fiction. The three-episode filler arc after Duelist Kingdom is probably the perfect little addition to the franchise, because really, it doesn't mean anything. All it does is open up the possibility for the Noa storyline in the middle of Battle City. Another filler arc.**_

_**All this is to say that I've been waiting to do something like this. I've had the idea of writing a virtual D&D game (or some facsimile thereof) for years. I've finally figured out how to do it. The previous chapter set the stage, and this one moves everything forward.**_

_**So, here we go.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"I've also invited Mister Townsend," Seto said.<p>

"Foxfire's coming?" Megan's eyes lit up. "Oh, _no."_

"Yes."

Jonah "Foxfire" Townsend, as Seto understood it, was an amateur musician, and spent a lot of his time composing theme music for his fellow internet personalities. Although Megan claimed that her handle had come from her incessant curiosity, Foxfire was quite candid about admitting he'd named himself after something much more mundane: his favorite internet browser.

Mokuba had apparently come up with "Wonderboy" not long after he'd gotten into reading _Batman_ comics. The thought brought an unconscious smile to Seto's lips; despite all evidence to the contrary—that was, the fact that Seto was never caught reading anything less complicated than a dissertation—the comparison was not lost on him.

"We'll be working with a party of five players," Seto said. "The two of you, my brother, and two of his other friends. You'll be compensated at the same rate as our entry-level interns. Ten dollars per hour." Seto lifted up a few sheets of paper. "I've your contract here. It outlines everything about the project."

"You're paying us to play a game with Wonder." Megan quirked an eyebrow.

Seto shrugged. "If you elect to take on this project, there _will _be work involved. But fundamentally, yes; I suppose if you wanted to be sentimental about it, I'm paying you to play a game. I assume you're used to that by now."

Megan chuckled. "Fair enough. You said alpha testers. So I'm guessing there's going to be some kind of NDA involved, right? Keep everything hush-hush, no videos or previews or anything?"

"As I said, the specifics of the project are outlined in full here." Seto lifted up the contract. "But yes. For now. Once things progress sufficiently, we'll discuss whether or not you'd like to cover this platform on your channels. It's . . . not exactly a videogame. Not in the way most people think of them."

"If I know you half as well as I think I do, given what Wonder's told me about you, I think you must have _some _kind of ulterior motive here. I can't simply be so lucky as to get first dibs at KC's newest project just because I've rubbed virtual elbows with the VP."

Seto didn't answer immediately. He said, eventually, "I need a diverse group for the purposes of this test. Different age groups." He waited a moment. "I'm quite sure that people would tell you many times over: gaining my brother's favor is one of the fastest ways to 'get ahead,' as it were, in this city. Common theory has it that I'm a soft touch where he's concerned."

Megan smiled. "But obviously, they're mistaken."

"Obviously." Seto set the small stack of papers on his desk again. "This test will take some time to complete. I've arranged for accommodations for you and Mister Townsend. Will you need to head back home on any particular timeframe?"

"No, not really. I cleared my schedule for this." Megan shrugged. "Besides, Foxfire and I both do YouTube fulltime, so it's not like we're out of work right now, anyway. Assuming these 'accommodations' you're talking about have Wi-Fi, we can do our thang pretty much anywhere."

"I see." Seto nodded. "Good, good. Very well, then."

There was a gleam in his eye, a sparkle, which Megan didn't expect to see; she realized that, more than just setting up a surprise for his little brother, Seto Kaiba was getting ready to start something that excited him, personally.

Something that made his blood sing.

Megan didn't know whether to be excited right along with him, or concerned for her safety.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>"All I'm saying is, nobody ever gives Jason Todd enough credit. And nobody even <em>remembers <em>Stephanie Brown."

Connor gave Rebecca an odd look. "Who?"

"Exactly. She was the _fourth_ Robin. Not that that means much. She got killed off too quick to matter, I guess. She never even got a monument in the Batcave. This is the problem with you _boys. _You just can't handle us."

Connor had yet to truly initiate himself into his best friend's extended social circle, as indicated by the fact that he shied away from Rebecca in spite of the fact that she was grinning. Mokuba, standing back and letting the discussion go by without much input, smirked to himself. He wondered when his two blond-headed compatriots would realize they liked each other.

Rebecca eventually realized that Mokuba hadn't spoken in a while, and turned an accusatory glance on him. "What say you? You're the designated Batfan, aren't you? Who do _you _think is the best Robin?"

"Robin was, is, and always will be Dick Grayson," Mokuba said definitively. "Jason, Tim, and Stephanie? Posers. All of 'em. Sorry, guys. That's just how it is."

They entered into the front parlor of Kaiba Manor, and Mokuba was struck dumb when an older boy strode in from the opposite side of the room, followed closely by a woman. The woman spoke first: "For _shame, _Wonder. No consideration whatsoever for Carrie Kelley?"

"I give her the win just for her sunglasses," said the boy, chuckling. He bowed with a flourish. "Foxfire Townsend, humbly at your service."

"And I," said the woman grandly, "am Madam Why."

"You guys!" Mokuba cried happily, and rushed across the parlor to greet them. Madam Why knelt down to hug him, while Foxfire ruffled the boy's hair. He glanced over at Connor and Rebecca.

"Aha," Foxfire said. "The inner circle. Lookie here, Madam. It's our competition."

Why stood up straight and raised an eyebrow. "Watch it, Fox. We might end up getting into a 'do online friends count?' debate, and realize that we aren't even real."

"What's your guys's story?" Rebecca asked brightly. "Do you work with Mister Kaiba?"

"Technically," Foxfire said, "I think we do. For now, anyway. But no, not really. I guess if you asked my parents, I don't work for _anyone. _Why and I, we're 'YouTube personalities.' Unlike Wonder, here, we don't have _real _careers to back us up."

"Oh, that's right. I think I've heard about that."

"Niisama said I should do it to give myself something to do that wasn't connected to Kaiba-Corp," Mokuba mused. "I think he just wanted me to stop bugging him about playing _Street Fighter _with me." He looked oddly at his friends. "Do you guys even know what 'Let's Plays' are? I keep having to ask that question."

"I've heard _of _them," Rebecca admitted. "Grandpa doesn't let me spend much time online. Old-fashioned, and all that."

"I think so?" Connor said.

"I'll show you later." Mokuba turned back to the older pair. "So what are you guys _doing _here? What did you mean about working for Niisama? Did he—did he call you here?"

Foxfire grinned. "A'yup! Says he's doing some alpha testing, invited both of us down here to try our hands. Guess he heard about our _expertise."_

"Alpha testing . . . ?" Mokuba mused thoughtfully.

"That's right," came Seto Kaiba's voice as he entered the room. "It's high time the pods become more than just a pet project. You five will be taking part in our first full, intensive test campaign."

At first glance, he looked the same as always. On closer inspection, however, it became obvious that the elder Kaiba hadn't just dressed in his usual suit and coat. He was dressed like a Victorian gentleman; he had a cane, a pocket-watch. The only thing missing was the top hat.

Mokuba's eyes went wide. "Niisama . . . you . . ."

"Connor Brinkley, Rebecca Hawkins, Megan Howell, Jonah Townsend, Mokuba Kaiba," Seto announced, in a tone of voice that felt at once wholly alien, and precisely _right: _he sounded like a narrator on stage in a theater. "On behalf of Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Meyari sin Lau, I welcome you to the Royal Court. Follow me, if you will, and I will elaborate on the reason that you have been called here today."

Connor and Rebecca exchanged confused glances. Madam Why and Foxfire—Megan and Jonah—smirked at each other.

Mokuba looked rapturous, and he was the first to catch on. He said, "By your leave, my good man. Whatever service I may offer the crown is my duty and honor."

Seto grinned, and it transformed his face. Suddenly, the two Kaibas _looked _like family.

He swept out of the room, leaving the other five to follow.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>They sat like escape pods on a space ship, centered about a rounded structure that could only be their power source. As the six of them walked inside, the lights flared on. The glass covering each pod's seat slid upward, and Mokuba wasted no time hopping into one, settling in like it was an old, familiar easy chair. It was this, more than anything else, which helped the others get over a creeping sense of trepidation as they eyed the devices in front of them.<p>

"A tutorial scenario has been set up for you," Seto said, trailing the others. "It will take you through character creation, and explain pertinent information about how this campaign will proceed." He stepped behind a wide computer terminal set into one corner of the room. "The five of you will act as the players. I will serve as the game master." Seto's hands flipped switches, ticked off various touch-screen options, and entered commands, independent of his attention, which was focused on the others. "I trust you're all familiar with traditional role-playing games?"

Megan and Jonah nodded.

Rebecca said, "Yup-yup!"

Mokuba didn't bother to answer.

Connor scratched his head. "Um . . . kinda."

"You'll be fine," Seto said. "Now, then. Each of you select a pod, set things up so that you're comfortable, and we'll get started."

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

* * *

><p>When the mist cleared, and the party realized that they actually <em>felt <em>like they were somewhere else, standing out in a field instead of sitting in a garage, they all shared looks with each other, and the gravity of what they were doing finally hit them.

Connor had elected to look like himself; the only difference was that he looked slightly, so slightly, older. Instead of the t-shirt and khaki pants he'd been wearing, he was dressed in white-washed, boiled leather armor and a white hood, with knives strapped like a bandolier across his chest. A quiver of arrows sat at one hip, a short-sword on the other. A compact bow was strapped, unstrung, to his back. He stared around at his surroundings like a blind man given sight for the first time.

Rebecca looked like a twenty-something young woman, dressed in furs and leathers; her ears had a tapered point to them, and she walked with an elaborate wooden staff. Her face was only vaguely familiar, framed with curly, green-tinged hair. Surely an elf of some kind.

Jonah was a mammoth, easily seven feet tall and sheathed in solid muscle. His jutting jaw and oversized teeth—they were almost tusks—marked him as an orc, and his gigantic two-bladed axe marked him as a warrior. His hair, dark and matted with some sort of mud, was pulled into a number of rough braids. He wore beaten, battered plate armor, and a sneering grin.

The others almost didn't see Megan at first. It was only when she hopped up on Jonah's massive shoulder, all three feet of her, that they took notice of her. She was positively tiny, perhaps a gnome or a Halfling, dressed in the sweeping robes of a spellcaster.

"This," Megan declared, in a childish timbre, "might be the greatest thing that's ever happened to me."

Jonah grunted affirmatively. "I'll have to agree with you," he said, in a quiet rumble. "This is incredible."

"Stay in this city long enough," Rebecca said, "and you'll start realizing that there's basically nothing the Kaiba Corporation _can't _pull off. Speaking of, where's the VIP?"

"Someone's coming over that way," Connor pointed out, with a gesture. Two figures had crested a hill and were headed for them. As they came closer, their features came into focus: one was dressed in the same outfit, to the stitch, that Seto had been wearing. The other was in a gleaming, glinting, gold-etched suit of armor. They were of a height with each other.

The armored warrior had long black hair pulled back in a tail, and he joined the other four as they approached. The other man, who still looked like Seto, smirked at them all. "Well, then," he said, "we're all here."

Megan quirked an eyebrow at Mokuba's avatar. "Overcompensation much, Wonder?"

One plated shoulder shrugged. "I've used this character for years," he said, and nobody missed the fact that his voice was remarkably similar to Seto's; it was smoother, without the gravelly weight that the elder Kaiba's had, but it was close enough. He bowed with a flourish. "Althor Pendraeg, servant of Bahamut, at your service."

"You have been called," Seto said, "because your names have been scattered to the Pillars of the World as the best of the best. The Four Saints smile upon you. This world needs people like you." He gestured around him, at the rolling hills, and specifically at the great walled city behind him. The five adventurers' eyes were drawn to the great spiraling tower in the center, which looked like a giant needle poking a hole into the floor of Heaven. "Come, my friends, and I will guide you to Lorat, the City of the Moon. All will be explained."

And with that, Seto began walking, with Mokuba's shining paladin right behind him. The others glanced at each other, grinned, and followed.

Megan was still perched on Jonah's shoulder.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Connor's costume and class (roguethief) may or may not be a reference to the Assassin's Creed series, which I've recently come back to, after years of basically ignoring it. In the third main installment of the franchise (the 5**__**th**__** game overall), the main protagonist is named Ratonhnhaké:ton. At least, that's his real name. He is renamed in the course of the game to, wait for it, Connor. Possibly because it's easier to spell.**_

_**As to the others, I'm pretty sure I've used the name Althor before. Mokuba's character name is a not-so-subtle nod to King Arthur. This character is the same paladin he plays in his weekly D&D sessions with Yugi and the others. Remember Dragonbrother? Yeah. That guy.**_

_**We'll find out more about the others as the series continues.**_

_**A note about the Batman discussion in Scene 2. It has been pointed out that I neglected to mention the most recent Robin in the Batman franchise, Damian Wayne (if we, like Foxfire, count Carry Kelley, from Frank Miller's seminal "The Dark Knight Returns," he would be the sixth). The reason for this is simple: this series is set right around 2006-2007. Damian became Robin in 2009. He isn't in the running for best Robin because he isn't Robin yet.**_

_**For the record . . . he's my favorite of the bunch. So I do feel bad for leaving him out. But I feel I must hold myself to realism. Mostly.**_

_**I'm neurotic like that.**_


	58. Carry the Blessed Home III

_**This is where I feel that this mini-arc of mine starts to hit its stride. I should note here that the five chapters I've allotted for this experiment won't comprise an entire story, because that's not really the point. The point of this project is to work with snapshots, rather than extensive plot arcs. After all, that's what the core story is for.**_

_**Nonetheless, I'm going to make sure that whatever it is I end up doing with the remaining two chapters, it will come to a satisfactory conclusion. It might not end the campaign, but it will end a section of it. And who knows? Maybe we'll come back to this at some point in the future, if that's something you'd be interested in seeing.**_

_**Now, then. We've an audience with the queen.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>She was ravishing.<p>

It was difficult to come up with another word to describe the woman who rose, like a winter goddess, at their approach. She stepped forward, resplendent in a silken gown that looked like someone had reached up into midnight and pulled down the sky for fabric. Her hair, blacker than the onyxes set into her throne, lovingly framed her face and tumbled down her back. Tall and shapely, with the bearing of someone only vaguely human, this could only be the queen.

As the gorgeous young monarch descended the small steps onto the marble floor of the castle's meeting chamber, a pair of guards fell into step on either side of her. In direct and striking contrast to their charge, the men were simply garbed, in chainmail shirts and boiled leather plates. They had unadorned, rough steel weapons hanging from hooks on their wide belts. The only decoration they wore were the half-capes covering their right shoulders, which were an oceanic shade of blue, with a silver crescent moon stitched into the center.

They were big men, and may as well have been twins . . . at least at first glance. A second, more critical look revealed that there was nothing even superficially similar about their appearance to each other; it was only their expressions that made them seem so. They were not scowling, nor did they even seem grim, but just the same even Jonah—whose huge and hulking avatar towered over the both of them—knew better than to test them.

All had the distinct and lasting impression that, if danger caught the barest glimpse of their queen, these men would tear a new bowel into hell.

Seto approached the three figures, completely at ease, and bowed deeply at the waist. "My lady," he said; an unreadable emotion choked his voice for a moment, but it was gone before anyone (even his brother) could figure out what it was.

Queen Meyari smiled graciously, and she spread out her arms. Before the elder Kaiba could step back, he was caught in a sudden hug. The five players all exchanged looks, each of them understanding the awkwardness of the scene in front of them.

It was funny to think that, even though this was a virtual world, and even though Seto himself had constructed it, he still balked at being touched. The game master gingerly returned the young woman's embrace, and when he finally managed to extricate himself from it, and the party got a good look at his face, they realized that he was blushing.

"It's so wonderful to see you safe," Meyari said to Seto, with laughter in her voice. "And as always, you have kept your word." She swept her arms out in a grand gesture of welcome as she let her lofty, bright violet gaze take in the party. "Welcome, noble adventurers, to Lorat. Fabled gem of Heaven, the City of the Moon." Then she giggled, a deceptively girlish sound. She added, self-consciously: "I'm obligated to say that. Please, don't think me arrogant. Now, then! I understand that you lovely people have volunteered to . . ."

She stopped.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Rebecca looked at Connor, Connor looked at Megan, Megan looked at Seto.

Jonah looked at himself. "This City of the Moon isn't racist, is it?" he asked no one in particular. "Should I not have made an orc? I like orcs."

Nobody answered. The queen wasn't looking at him.

Her gaze was locked on Althor Pendraeg, servant of Bahamut.

Meyari whispered: ". . . Mokuba?"

The young Kaiba blinked. The paladin's face went slack. "Huh?"

"Is that . . . ? It _is!" _Meyari whirled on Seto. "Sethos! You . . . you've brought me . . . ?"

Seto had a calculating look on his face. Then he remembered his role and said, "A thousand pardons, my lady, but . . . do you know this man?"

_"Know _him?" Meyari echoed incredulously. "Do I know—Sethos, my dear man, do you have any idea what you've _done?"_

"So, um . . ." Rebecca murmured under her breath. "This is getting off on a _grand _note."

"I feel I should mention right now that I have no fracking clue how to use this thing," Jonah said, reaching back and patting his axe. "If we get into a fight this early, I'm pretty sure we're doomed."

Meyari's guards glared accusingly at Jonah, putting their hands on the leather-wrapped grips of their own weapons. The one on the queen's left had a six-bladed mace, while the other sported a heavy, machete-styled blade with a wicked hook at the end.

Meyari's face split into a beaming grin, and she squealed as she threw herself at Mokuba.

"I _knew _you'd be back someday, Mokuba! Oh, welcome home!"

Mokuba, for his part, stared blankly over Meyari's shoulder at his brother.

Everyone expected the elder Kaiba to have a self-satisfied smirk on his face, or maybe to completely ignore the fact that his brother was embarrassed, and clearly wanted some sort of explanation.

Both Rebecca and Connor knew about Mokuba's first virtual gaming adventure; at least, they'd heard the broad strokes of it. They knew about the child queen who could have passed for their friend's twin sister. They knew about the five-headed dragon.

It should have been easy to explain. Clearly, Seto had designed this non-player character, an older version of that same child queen, to react to Mokuba's avatar as though she remembered him from that first adventure. But one look at Seto's face made it obvious that he hadn't done anything like that.

The game master's eyes were wide, almost feverish, and his hands twitched at his sides.

He whispered: ". . . How in the _hell?"_

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>Before any more niceties could be exchanged, a sudden, explosive noise rocked the foundations of the building.<p>

And before the others, even the queen's guards, had a chance to react, Seto had tossed off his coat and drew out a pair of hand-scythes. His eyes were narrow, suspicious. He said, in an echoing voice that didn't match his bearing: "That wasn't an earthquake. Nor was it a siege weapon. Something else, something . . . unnatural . . . is upon us." He stared directly at the party. "What will you do?"

The air sang as Mokuba drew out his sword. He whipped the shield on his back onto his opposite arm, turned with his back to the queen, and took a slow, deliberate step backward. "We've known each other barely long enough to count ourselves as acquaintances," he said, "but I trust you to take my lead."

Connor put on a smirk that matched his avatar's face, but not his own. _"Somebody _thinks highly of himself," he said, with barely a note of the childish timbre they might have expected. He flipped a long knife into his right hand.

Mokuba returned the smirk; his eyes sparkled.

Megan leaned close to Jonah, still at her vigil on his broad shoulder. "What say, big man? Do we trust the tin bucket?"

Jonah's orc grinned toothily. "Why not?"

Rebecca gave a short nod.

Mokuba gestured to Jonah. "You two: up front. Face the doors." He looked at Rebecca. "Behind them, to one side." He looked at Connor. "Opposite side." He straightened, rolled his shoulders, and said without looking back: "On your guard, Meyari."

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "Then . . . begin."

Althor Pendraeg rushed forward, shield leading, as his allies fell into position.

The doors they had entered exploded inward.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Get him," the queen said, before the dust had time to clear. One of her guards started to protest, but she reiterated, much more fiercely: <em>"Get him! <em>He was right! What more proof do you need? Bring him here! _Now!"_

The man with the mace rushed out of the throne room via a back entrance.

As the splintered corpses of the doors lay like abandoned dogs on the marbled floor, Mokuba tightened his grip on his weapon. At first glance, a young woman stood in the center of the retinue, a virgin on her wedding day, with a white gown and a soft blue veil. But a closer look revealed the truth: the gown was not a gown, but a funeral shroud. The veil was a ballet dance of spider's webs. The woman had no eyes, no lower jaw, and her fingers—reaching, ever reaching—were dirty, blood-streaked, and mangled.

Half of those fingers had no nails.

The rest of this gruesome bride's brigade were no more preserved than she, and many were even worse. Maggots nested in more than one face. Limbs lay splintered and useless against exposed ribcages. Groaning, gaping maws let out blackened death-rattles accompanied by a smell so ungodly that it could flay flesh from bone.

The bride bore its black, blank gaze on Mokuba, and screamed.

First blood went to Connor, as a thin knife _whooshed _past Mokuba's head and landed with a hollow _thunk _in one of the corpses' foreheads. The air sizzled on the younger Kaiba's other side, announcing a flash of lightning that slammed into another shambling, shuffling body and sent it reeling backward.

Mokuba drew in a sharp breath, then threw himself into the fray. As more spells, and more knives, flew about his head, Mokuba's sword danced in the squalid air. He whipped an arm around and felt a sudden stuttering jerk as his shield met, and nearly shattered, a creature's skull.

As the melee continued, Seto's voice rolled over them like a winter storm: "They fall, like sacrilegious leaves from a tree in a cemetery." Looking over, one by one, the player characters couldn't help but watch as Seto's avatar wove through the growing crowd of bodies; his small, hooked blades sent ribbons of black blood about himself. "The queen . . . is strangely calm," Seto declared.

Mokuba turned to glance back at Meyari, and found this statement to be true. While her remaining bodyguard whipped his machete around with sharp, quick strikes, the queen herself stood stolid; her face was drawn, but composed; pale, but stalwart. She barely moved. When one of them slipped past the other players and barreled past the guard, Meyari slipped a dagger from the folds of her gown and drove it cleanly into the thing's eye socket.

"Does she know something?" Seto asked. His voice was slow, methodical, and the most important thing in the room. His words pushed past the groans of the creatures, the shrieking of the dead bride, and the grunts of exertion from the players. "Why is she not terrified? Why is she not _surprised? _Who is she calling here?"

Completely lost in the moment as he was, Mokuba barely paid attention to his brother's narration. Nonetheless, he felt the sentiments in his bones, as though Seto's story had been hard-coded into the pods themselves.

He was barely able to contain his excitement, in direct spite of the gruesome sight around him, and when he stole a glance at Jonah—who belted out barbaric war-cries in sequence with the monsters, like he was trying to communicate with them—he could tell that his friend was similarly rapturous.

They could _feel _the thrill of the moment, the thrum of the hunt. There were no cushions beneath them, no visors over their heads. There were no speakers set against their ears. There was only this magnificent throne room, blasphemed by the hulking damned, and the voice of their game master.

When Seto let out a sudden, primal howl of pain, Mokuba's entire body went ramrod stiff, and he nearly dropped his weapon. When he turned, and saw the dead bride gnawing on his brother's forearm, digging her broken fingers into his flesh, Mokuba almost fainted.

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

* * *

><p>Jonah Townsend didn't like to think of himself as a heartless bastard, but the thought had crossed his mind more than once, thanks to certain . . . contingencies.<p>

To wit, he didn't have an older _sibling, _but he'd grown up with any number of older cousins, and aunts and uncles to go with them, and he'd never once felt the kind of connection that his young friend obviously had with his brother. It had neared the point, during certain periods of general pessimism, that Jonah wondered whether or not Mokuba played it up for the camera. This didn't mean to say that the younger Kaiba didn't love the elder; Jonah wasn't _that _cynical. But sometimes he wondered whether it was fully authentic.

Sometimes he felt guilty for that.

Like the moment when Mokuba—wearing the body of a holy warrior—watched his brother—wearing the body of a royal retainer—being eaten.

It was a game. It was virtual. It was glorified _Dungeons & Dragons _without the imagination part. They were standing in a castle fighting zombies, probably the most clichéd fantasy monster in all of creation. He was an orc, and he had an overgrown pixie perched on his shoulder. It was the most ridiculous, and the most magical, moment of his life. There was no doubting Seto's genius. But all the same, it was a freaking _game._

Yet looking at Mokuba's face, you wouldn't have known that.

Breaking character for the first time, Mokuba gasped out "Niisama!" in a very quiet, very childish voice.

Seto, for his part, quickly brought one of his weapons to bear, split the banshee's head in two, and watched the body crumple to the floor with a savage sense of triumph. The elder Kaiba breathed heavily, stared hatefully at the grisly wound on his arm, and moved toward his next target.

The rest of the battle went well; Jonah quickly realized that this first combat encounter wasn't meant to challenge the player, but to stress the system. Scores upon scores of the things piled into the room, but one solid strike by any weapon was enough to destroy them. Aside from Seto's rather grievous injury—he was sweating, and pale, and his flesh was already turning a rather unnatural shade—none of the others were even hurt. Not even the queen's guard, who was obviously the most flustered of the group.

As the last of the zombies fell to the floor, Seto caught his brother's eye and gestured him over. The queen, belying her earlier behavior, seemed to ignore Mokuba's existence as she started to speak to the others. Jonah focused on the next leg of the story, as much as he could, but he couldn't help but look back at Mokuba's avatar every handful of seconds.

He thought he'd never seen his friend looking quite so vulnerable, and thought it was rather cosmically hilarious that it took seeing him in a fully-grown body to remind Jonah that Mokuba Kaiba was still a little boy.

* * *

><p><strong>5.<strong>

* * *

><p>". . . Hey," Mokuba said sheepishly as he approached Seto's character. "Um . . . what's up?"<p>

Seto raised an eyebrow. "We talked about this," he said. "I warned you, specifically _told _you how this scenario was going to pan out. Remember? I play an NPC until the first major combat encounter, and then . . ." Seto ran a finger across his throat.

"I didn't know you were going to let a zombie _eat your_ _arm," _Mokuba protested. "I wasn't even sure if this was the campaign you've been working on. I just . . . I wasn't expecting that."

Seto gave his brother a rare smile. "I know." He lifted up his wounded arm and snapped the fingers of his opposite hand; the bite disappeared. He snapped again, and it came back. "Remember, Mokuba. It's a game. Smoke and mirrors."

Mokuba nodded. "Sure. Yeah. Okay."

"Now present yourself to the queen, Ser Pendraeg," Seto said, as he affected a sickly look and half-walked, half-limped in Meyari's direction. "The day is young."

"Hey, um . . . Niisama?"

"Mm?"

Mokuba straightened, sheathed his sword, and said, "Next time we run through this part, could you, um . . . not look and sound so much like, you know, _you?"_

Seto smirked as Mokuba put an arm around his shoulders and helped him walk. "Duly noted."

* * *

><p><strong>6.<strong>

* * *

><p>Meyari turned her attention back to Mokuba as his character helped Seto's to approach the throne. She looked resigned. ". . . I'm so <em>sorry,<em> Sethos," she said. There was no denial in her voice, no shock. There was no real feeling at all. "We . . . we thought he was lying. We thought he was a drunken madman. A witch-fixer from the East, peddling in myths and legends."

Seto scrunched up his face; when he spoke, his voice was soft and raspy. He said, through clenched teeth, ". . . He? Of whom do you speak, my lady?"

"A traveler. He came into the city three nights ago. We caught him. desecrating coffins in the cemetery! He was . . . he was smashing them open, and _burning_ the bodies inside. Fighting off anyone who tried to stop him, threatening them with his torch. We sent out a Sister to apprehend him, but he went with _her _without a fight. But he said . . . he said that the dead would rise from their long sleep. Soon. He said we would come to regret . . . not listening to him."

She stopped, looked down at her feet, and sighed.

Jonah spoke up, in his quiet rumble: "This traveler say anything else?"

Meyari shook her head. "No. He hasn't spoken since . . . since we put him in his cell."

"Is that the one you sent your guard off to find?" Rebecca asked, leaning against her staff. Meyari nodded. "Will he know what to do? Or . . . what's going on?"

"We can only hope he does."

Another guard, without the half-cape worn by the queen's personal attendants, tumbled into the throne room after a few moments of absolute silence. He gasped out: "My queen! They—they've—they're rising! They're _eating _people! They—!" He saw the bodies strewn about the room and vomited.

Looking suddenly terrified, Meyari looked at the party. "Please!" she pleaded. "Go, and use your talents out in my city! Help my people! I beg of you!"

"Will you go?" Seto asked, with less force to his voice but no less inherent charisma. "Will you meet unholy flesh with steel and spell? Or will you wait for this mysterious prisoner?"

Jonah growled. "Not much for waiting," he said.

Mokuba nodded. "I say we go."

The others quickly agreed.

"I'll send the traveler out to meet you," Meyari said as they left, sounding hollow.

It was hard to believe that not minutes ago, she had been laughing.

Or that she had been beautiful.

* * *

><p><strong>7.<strong>

* * *

><p>The man's thick boots made loud, offensive reports. He was haggard, dirty, and there was no missing the fact that he had spent the last few days in a cell. His long coat looked like it had once been expensive, even noble; the cloth was thick, and embroidered. But it was frayed, like the rest of him. Nonetheless, he carried himself with the gravitas of a king returning to his own court.<p>

The man looked around at the carnage that had once been a throne room with a kind of bored intensity. His dark grey eyes set themselves upon the queen. "So. Can I trust that the charges of charlatanism and general proselytizing will be dropped, Your Ladyship?"

Meyari frowned. "What is your name, stranger?" she asked grimly.

The man swept off his limp, wide-brimmed hat and bowed with a flourish, even though his hands were still clamped in iron shackles in front of him. "Trevahn Fremont, Son of Julian, Lord of the Landing and retired First Sentry of the Father's Army. Humbly at your transcendent majesty's whim."

Trevahn straightened, and the look on his scratched and bearded face had gone far past sardonic and had become purely offensive. He looked like he thought he was the only adult in a crowd of children, gathered 'round a street magician whose tricks he had long since forgotten to enjoy.

In the presence of a queen, this man had the temerity to not only look patronizing, but legitimately insulted.

Meyari either didn't notice this (unlikely), or simply chose to ignore it.

She said, "Well, then, Lord Fremont, permit me to apologize for our . . . rashness. If you would please tell us what—what _damnation _is upon us, I promise you that we will listen."

Trevahn let out a loud breath. "It's quite simple, Queen Meyari. The Serpent's Prophecy is invoked. The dead will not rest easy, and never long. They haunt the living. The Four Saints have tossed up their hands and given up. We are left to our own devices, and if you want my opinion, we're probably going to die. All of us. You, me, your lovely new mercenaries."

Seto had slumped to the floor, his back against a wall. He coughed, and stared around the room like he didn't recognize where he was. His eyes had gone almost milky, and his face was gaunt. The flesh of his wounded arm was already blackening, the veins standing out in stark relief as though he'd drawn them with thick, oily ink.

Trevahn shook his head. He looked down at his shackles. He held out his arms to one of the guards. "If any of us are to survive this, you're going to want my help."

The guard looked at the queen, who nodded slowly.

Once his hands were free, Trevahn rolled his shoulders and massaged his wrists. "Now, then," he said.

He strode forward, grabbing the other guard's hooked machete as he did. Before anyone had a chance to protest, he made his way over to Seto. "Have ye a final prayer, that ye would have Our Father in Heaven hear?" he asked, invoking an ancient rite that even the queen dared not interrupt.

Seto smirked. "Thanks for nothing," he said.

Trevahn actually laughed. "Not bad, retainer. Not bad at all."

He slammed the hooked end of the blade straight into Seto's skull.

* * *

><p><em><strong>A note: I don't know if I've mentioned this previously, but Queen Meyari is the Japanese name for the young Mokuba-like queen in Seto's virtual game. I went with it because, well, I like the sound of Queen Meyari more than I do Princess Adina.<strong>_

_**I've mentioned in another chapter of this collection that this character's young appearance was modeled after an old photo of Seto's mother, Yuki, rather than a girl version of Mokuba like Yugi and the others assume. So, her adult appearance here is more than likely modeled after the Yuki that Seto remembers. So for those who have read the "Born to be a Mama's Boy" story of the original "Good Intentions," or "Lightbringer," however you envision an adult Yuki to look, that's how Meyari looks here. Except, you know, in a medieval gown.**_

_**Also, yes, zombies. Sue me. I love them, I've loved them for years, and I've been looking for a way to write them for quite some time now. Here's hoping it worked for you all. I certainly enjoyed it.**_

_**As to Trevahn Fremont, Son of et cetera . . . well, you'll see.**_

'_**Til next time, all.**_


	59. Carry the Blessed Home IV

_**It's been a while since I touched this one. My apologies. But before we get into the chapter, a touch of indulgence, if you would. Those of you who have looked at my profile recently, or else have read the most recent installment of my other Big YGO Story, "Cult of the Dragon King," will know this already. For those who have done neither of these things, lend me your ears.**_

_**I've re-launched my YouTube Channel, "Story Time with Iced Blood." It's a Let's Play channel, which is something I've wanted to do for a long time. I've been watching LPs for years now, and I've finally decided to jump in myself. You may also recall that, in this series of stories, this is something that Mokuba does, under the handle "Wonderboy996." Megan, the little gnome spellcaster in this arc, does it as well, as "Madam Why."**_

_**_15 episodes of m_y first project, "Resident Evil 4," are up and ready for y'all, if you're interested. I'm going to get to work compiling the 16**__**th**__** after this chapter is posted.**_

_**My channel is in its infancy, so any interest or assistance at all is immensely appreciated. This could become a career for me, if it takes off, so if you're looking for a way to support me as I continue working toward my first novel, and working on these stories as I do so, this is definitely a big way to do it.**_

_**Thanks so much for your patience. Now, on with the story.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You know, it's not often that we get fine-dressed lords 'n ladies about. 'Specially ones what consort wit' beasts 'n creatures."<p>

Mokuba stopped walking, turned, and set a hand on one hip. He raised a Kaiba's eyebrow. "It's a new age," he rumbled. The speaker, a rotund man swathed in silks and jewelry, eyed him suspiciously. "We have been summoned on behalf of the queen, and act as her hands here in the streets." He turned away and kept walking.

Jonah shoulder-checked the nobleman, grinning when he let out a squawk of indignation.

"The streets seem rather calm," Rebecca murmured slowly, "considering this talk of people being eaten. First the queen, now the upper echelon." She eyed the nobleman severely, and a green tendril snaked its way down her arm like a serpent. "These folk seem too . . . well-adjusted, if you ask me."

"When people are watching their loved ones get eaten by corpses," Jonah growled, "the well-adjusted ones are the first to start screaming and tearing out their teeth. These people? They're well and truly _fucked." _He grinned toothily. "Pardon the language." Then he looked back at the nobleman and bowed deeply at the waist; Megan hopped off Jonah's shoulder, landed in front of him, and curtsied. "By your leave, Milord," the orc said. "Mightn't ye cast me off in the direction of the nearest zoo, Milord? Shouldn't like to offend your sensibilities, Milord."

"Lock him up! Watch him squirm, Milord! Milord!" Megan offered this in a weirdly coquettish sort of voice that made Connor snicker. Then she cackled merrily, and jumped right back into place as Jonah straightened. Mokuba, for his part, smirked again and gestured for the others to follow.

"With me. Quickly. If we're going to handle this . . . situation, we should move."

"Where?" Connor asked, flipping a knife end over end and catching it. Mokuba watched as he lifted the fat nobleman's coin purse and slipped it into a pocket. "We don't even know what we're doing. We up and leave the queen with a court full of dead bodies, we come out here and everything's sugar and dewdrops. Where, fearless leader, are we going to find the _root of the problem?"_

The others all looked at each other. For one, even Megan and Jonah—who had only met Connor a few hours ago—knew that this was _not _Connor Brinkley speaking. Two, he had a point. Only Mokuba, wearing a knight's face, seemed entirely unabashed by the question.

He simply gestured grandly and said, "Where else would you go, if you're looking for the dead?"

Connor started grinning first, and he said, in a low voice that sent shivers down several spines:

"The graveyard."

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>They hadn't set foot past the back of the church and into the cemetery before someone called out to them. Looking around, they saw a child, sitting on one of the tombstones and swinging his legs back and forth.<p>

He was a boy, about twelve or thirteen, dressed like a beggar. His coarse brown shirt had a low-cut neck, and he used a length of rope to keep his shorts—made of the same cloth—cinched at his thin waist. The only things even remotely expensive about his outfit were his boots, which were made of soft, supple leather.

Curly red hair framed the boy's face, and somehow he looked at once like a beggar and a prince. His brown eyes sparkled intently as he hopped down and approached the party. "Good fortune to you," he said. His voice was light, happy, supremely inappropriate for his surroundings.

A great many graves had been desecrated, just like the queen had said; some looked like they'd been dug out with a shovel; others looked naturally sunken in. There were lines in the dirt, like hands had been digging through it. Clawing at it. Mokuba ignored the boy, and strode over to one of the overturned graves. Glancing inside, he saw a wooden coffin lying innocuously at the bottom of the seven-foot hole. The lid had burst open from the inside, leaving splinters and shards in the dirt.

Mokuba put a hand on the hilt of his weapon and turned slightly to regard the boy. "Do you make a habit of vandalizing the beds of the dead, boy?"

The beggar prince blinked, and smiled broadly, revealing startlingly white teeth. "Why, _no, _my lord. It's my first day!" He bent down and pulled up a pickaxe from where it had been leaning, against the stone he'd been seated on. "Master said I should use a shovel, but honestly, I find this a lot easier. It's not as heavy."

Jonah growled deep in his throat. ". . . I hate flippant children," he rumbled.

Connor chuckled. "That explains a lot," he said. "What's your name, stranger?" he asked the boy.

"Deacon."

Connor raised an eyebrow. "That's not your real name, is it?"

"Of course not," Deacon said. "I don't know you, my lords and ladies. Master says I shouldn't trust strangers. To you, I am Deacon. It's _one _of my names."

"Did you set these things upon the queen?" Rebecca asked, gesturing at the ruined yard. "Are you responsible for the blasphemy in the castle parlor, _Deacon?"_

Deacon shrugged his thin shoulders. "I've never even seen the castle, my lady. Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm kind of . . . um, what's the word? I forget. _Poor. _The City of the Moon doesn't stand much for people moving above their station. It's not a tourney day. I wouldn't even be allowed past the Diamond Gate. Much less the castle."

". . . Trust him?" Megan asked Jonah. "Trust the little princess boy? Look at him, look." She finally hopped down onto the ground and practically skipped up to Deacon. For his part, the little redhead looked down at the gnomish sorceress without the faintest trace of fear, or even interest. She looked up at him, frowning intently. "Boy? Girl? Both? Neither? What _is _the little princess boy? Who is his master? Why does he talk of graves?"

"I've given you a name," Deacon said lightly. "Won't you give me yours?"

"False names. Don't count." Megan huffed and crossed her arms. "This one does not speak with liars."

"I was honest enough to tell you that I was lying," Deacon said. He cocked his head. "Does that count for anything?"

Mokuba suddenly exploded into movement, reaching out one metal-clad hand and gripping Deacon by the throat. He set the tip of his sword against one of the boy's cheeks. The paladin's violet eyes gleamed with sudden malice. "Let me tell you what will count, boy!" he hissed. "What will _count _is you telling me the meaning of this _sacrilege! _Who disturbs the sleep of the sacred dead?! Why do you sit here, happy as a lamb, making jokes?! _Speak!"_

Dead silence. Gone was the nonchalant amusement. Deacon's thin face had gone pale, his lips trembled, and a little drip of blood fell down his cheek in stark contrast to his lily skin. This wasn't the fear of a child who didn't understand the nature of the threat in front of him. This was the mortal terror of a burn victim staring into a bonfire.

The others all stared at each other. Connor was grinning; Jonah looked excited.

Rebecca and Megan crossed their arms and waited.

A new voice broke the sacrament: "Smart move, holy warrior. It's always best to go for the throat to shut _him _up. It's a shame I didn't figure that out sooner. It would have saved me a great number of headaches."

The man who approached them was wearing clothing that made a mockery of nobility. He was lanky, dirt-streaked, but his eyes were bright. He wore a long, haggard coat that was frayed at the bottom, and beneath it they could just catch sight of a blade hooked to a thick belt.

The man scratched at the stubble marring his chin. He held up a hand. "You asked after the brat's master. My guess? That would be me."

Mokuba tossed the boy onto the ground and turned to face the man. "And what name will _you _give us?"

The man shrugged. "I only own two, sorry to say. Trevahn, and Fremont." Trevahn stopped for a moment, then gestured to the boy. "I'll give you a third. That one, there. His name is Brenyn. Whatever lie he's given you, disregard it."

Trevahn tucked his thumbs behind his belt, and sauntered over to them. He nodded once to Mokuba's character, and gave a little bow to Megan. "You are Her Ladyship's new champions, I take it. Here you see the, ah, preamble to the main event in her chambers." He gestured to some of the cleaner holes. "I got to those ones. Burned them before they could rise. Unfortunately, one of the Sisters—Father bless them—caught wind of my illicit activities, and locked me up before I could get to the rest. They're the ones you were lucky enough to meet. Lady Viranda gave a rather stunning performance, as I hear it. Did you know about her? Assassinated on her wedding night, the poor thing."

Mokuba's scowl intensified. "You're telling me . . . _you _are responsible for this display?"

"That I am. When they're well and truly burnt, they can't come back up. I hope you aren't one of those _obstinate _holy men, who refuses to listen to reason because it isn't pleasing to his faith. The dead don't rest anymore, ladies and gentlemen. You should know, better than most of these sheep, just what that means."

"They all convened on the queen's castle," Rebecca said. "How is it none of the other people in the city have noticed?"

Trevahn shrugged. "Willful stupidity? I've had the boy working on it since we showed up here. It looks like he's actually been diligent about the task I've given him . . . _this _time. More than I can say for most of the errands I've set him on." He shook his head. "Listen to me, champions of the realm: if you want to save this city, and stop it from becoming some relic of the past like Longreth in the north, then listen to me, instead of arguing. Can you do that?"

"What are you talking about?" Mokuba asked suddenly. "Longreth is fine and good. Standing as tall as it ever has."

Trevahn smirked devilishly. "How long has it been since you've set foot in that hallowed fortress, knight?"

"I came _here, _directly from the capitol of the empire," Mokuba said, "not two ten-days ago."

Trevahn chuckled. "Interesting. I'll have to show you, someday, just what that lofty perch has become in such a short time. The living never last long against their beloved dead." He turned and pointed far off to the edge of the cemetery; roughly sixty feet in front of them sat a mausoleum, flanked by torches and bearing elaborate carvings that might have been inscriptions—they couldn't tell from this distance.

"There," Trevahn said, "is the heart of this cosmic joke. If you would save this gem of Heaven, then seek your answers there. Sing to the babe who makes its cradle in the grave," he added after some thought, then chuckled as though he'd just made a joke.

"This feels too easy," Jonah said.

Trevahn shrugged. "Says the jouster who has yet to take the field. An easy path does not mean an easy destination. Now come along. We have a tomb to plunder. Unless, of course," Trevahn's eyes flashed, "it would offend your sensibilities. Milord."

Jonah blinked, then grinned, revealing his sharp, predator's teeth. "You've been following us."

"You're hard to resist, you motley lot. Shall we do our civic duty, then? Save the queen? Save the kingdom?"

Mokuba gestured dismissively. "Fine, then. Lead on, Ser Fremont."

"Ah . . . that's Lord Fremont, actually."

"Of course it is. Get on with it."

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>.<p>

Trevahn pulled a torch out from underneath his coat, and something much smaller from a pocket of his pants. Flicking the tiny object into the air, he revealed it to be a tiny stone. It had a tinge of red to it, and when he held it to the unlit torch, the oil-soaked cloth went up in flame almost instantly. This done, he set the red stone back into his pocket and turned over his shoulder to look at the others. Gesturing grandly with his torch, he said, "After you, good ser."

Mokuba rolled his eyes, and stepped forward. Trevahn fell into step behind him and held the torch aloft. The others all fell behind Trevahn, with Brenyn taking up the rear. The red-haired little imp looked positively bored as they stepped into the mausoleum.

_**The stone around you is ancient, older than the dreams of kings,**_came Seto Kaiba's voice, ethereal but no less powerful than it always was; it came from everywhere, and nowhere, all at once. The man was nowhere to be seen, and neither Trevahn nor Brenyn seemed to hear him. _**Cobwebs act like tapestries, and the spiders dance away into nowhere as you approach.**_

True to their Dungeon Master's narrative, they all saw spiders skittering away, making little scratching sounds, as the party's footfalls echoed off the old stone walls. Megan _eeked _and hopped back onto Jonah's shoulders. At the odd looks she received, the little gnome shrugged her tiny shoulders and said, "Scared of eight-legged crawlies."

Brenyn, almost casually, crushed one of the little arachnids under the toe of one of his soft boots, smiling coyly as he did. When he caught Mokuba looking back at him, the boy cocked his head to one side and winked.

Stone caskets were set into alcoves cut into the walls, marked with runes that none of them could read. This didn't stop Megan from trying, but after a long stretch of silence while she tried to puzzle some meaning out of the strokes and swirls carved into the resting beds of the dead, she gave up. "No words," she proclaimed. "Random way-sayings." None of the others seemed to have any idea what this meant, so they left it alone. She took up her vigil again, and they moved on.

Mokuba did his best to keep up his character's mistrust of Trevahn Fremont, but a blind man could have told that the boy in the man's body was fascinated by the character.

Trevahn was snarky, arrogant, and clearly thought very little of the group that was following him, and yet he moved with an easy confidence, and the way he held his weapon bespoke clear familiarity with it. None of the other players missed the fact that he was dressed in a long coat, and that he had dark brown hair. Aside from these details he didn't look like the elder Kaiba, physically; he was thinner, shorter, and his face had a ruddy look that bespoke heavy drinking. Also, his clothing might once have been rich, but long years of heavy, indifferent wear had rendered it into such a state that no lord, or corporate executive, would have been caught dead in it. However, the man seemed to exude Seto's essence, and Mokuba was clearly affected by it.

Connor was near the boy, and after a while they started to carry on a whispered conversation. Rebecca, acting in her capacity of a warden of nature, seemed just as suspicious of Trevahn—and Brenyn—as Mokuba was trying to be, for different reasons. Mokuba was playing on his character's religious convictions, while Rebecca seemed far more troubled by the desecration and mockery of the dead on an instinctive level.

"Who are these folk?" Rebecca asked Trevahn after a while. "Surely they are honored, if they rest beneath stones, instead of earth. But so many . . ."

"The Moon City cares for its brave men and women of the Walk," Trevahn said. At the silence that followed this, he raised an eyebrow. "Never been to good old Lorat, have you?" Rebecca shook her head. Trevahn looked around the caskets with a fair amount more respect than they might have expected from him. He said, "The story goes, there was a girl. A common-born girl, in an age beyond memory. She was born to a kind family, with her parents and her brothers and her sisters. They were strong people, hardy people, all with golden hair and bright emeralds for eyes. Truly a sight. But this girl, her name was Selena, she was born without any color at all atop her head. Nay, her hair was white."

Mokuba's face lost some of its edge. "Cause for concern, surely," he guessed.

"Oh, yes," Trevahn said. "White brings black. The darkness is drawn to the light, and monsters are drawn to anyone with white hair. Such is the old legend. It's an omen, you see. Palehairs are wrought ever with misfortune, and Selena's family would have done well to drown the babe in a river. Their fellows would have thought the better of them if they had."

"That was the custom?" Connor asked. "To kill babies?"

"Yes. This is hard country. A child with ill luck is a child that cannot be suffered. Children here in Moon Country must work, and earn their keep. Folks say that pregnant crop-marms are at their work, harvesting, right up 'til the point they spit a child out onto the ground, and the younglings are picking carrots and turnips out of the dirt right alongside their mothers before the day sets down to sleep."

Megan tittered with sudden laughter that echoed. She squeaked, and quieted.

The mausoleum quickly became a maze, and only Trevahn seemed to know where they were going. He went on: "But Selena's mother was born with Allacinne in her blood, and couldn't bear to kill her own daughter. So the family kept her, in a room beneath the floorboards. They fed her, and clothed her, and schooled her. All in the safety of that room."

"Seems a foul way to live," Mokuba said.

"Does it?" Trevahn asked. "Sheltered by a loving family? Mm. Well, I must cede to your expertise, ser knight. In any case, the family quickly learned that little Selena loved to sing. Oh, how she loved to sing. And her voice was beautiful. So beautiful that it made the family weep for the blessing they'd been given. And one day, so overcome with the beauty of their young daughter, Selena's parents took her from her room beneath the floor, and brought her out into the night, so that she could sing in the open air."

"Ooooh," Brenyn cooed, "I know where _this_ story is going."

Jonah grunted.

Trevahn's smile was sardonic, and almost ghastly. "The white brought the dark," he said. "The people heard the singing, and they came to the family's home to see what heavenly creature could possibly make sounds so lovely as that. They saw Selena, and her white hair, and the night screamed with fire."

"They killed her," Connor guessed.

"Oh, _no,"_ Trevahn said. "It's ill luck to behold a creature with white hair, but it's suicide to _kill_ such a thing. No, they cast her out, so that the dark might claim her. But her family? Her mother, her sire, her brothers, her sisters? Even the livestock. All were put to the sword. Or . . . the pickaxe. The shovel. The pitchfork. Not a single member of little Selena's family lived through that night. Selena left her home, alone, drenched in her lady mother's blood and bruised by stones and blunt sticks."

Trevahn stopped a moment, and glanced up. "Still she sang. Still she remained hopeful. In her music, she found solace. She would sing at all hours of the night, and she would sleep in the day to avoid discovery. The nights in this country became haunted, entranced by Selena's music. And the legends say that . . . some two hundred years before today, Selena sang a song that was so beautiful, so sad and so heartfelt, that it lulled the world itself to sleep. As the world lay on its side to rest, Selena found the sky beneath her feet. And Heaven in the sky bade her come closer. Closer, sweetling, closer, that we might hear you. And so she walked, into the sky, still singing. She sang, and she walked, and she sang, and she walked, and she sang. But the earth covets the air. It keeps the air so close to itself, like a winter cloak. And soon, Selena's singing began to quiet, and she choked, unable to breathe."

Caught up in the story, the others didn't move. Even Brenyn was paying close attention now. They stood stock-still in the dark, listening.

Trevahn said, "Heaven panicked, and began to storm. Wake! Wake, you earth, and help your precious daughter! So Heaven ordered, and so the earth obeyed. It sent a piece of itself up, out, and enveloped Selena. Enchanted with air, enchanted with light, Selena was free to sing for as long as she wished, and so she stayed there, up in the sky. And that enchanted hunk of earth? We call it Moon. So you see? The old legends have it right. The light does bring the dark. But the moon takes in so much darkness around itself, and keeps it up, up, away from us. The moon, shining so brightly, protects us in the night. Selena protects us in the night."

Megan leaned in close. "Mmmmmmm . . . ?" she crooned.

"They say that the great tower in the center of our fair city, the one that pierces the sky, was built on the precise spot Selena was standing when the world went to sleep. We call it Selena's Walk. You see? It rises, rises along the path into Heaven that Selena took, before she became the moon."

Mokuba frowned. "A pretty story," he said after a while, "but what has that to do with this crypt?"

"The royal family of this fair city-state," Trevahn said, "is always led by a woman who takes on the name Selena, in deference to the Celestial Siren who guards us. Although some take other names, as well, out of respect for the names of the dead. Such is the case with dear Queen Meyari. And we, in turn, guard her. Lorat is home to one of the most celebrated private armies in all of Phila. The Ten Guards of the Walk. They are the men and women who fend off any creature, be they human or beast or demon. They keep us safe in the night. And here, in this crypt, we lay them to rest. Any man or woman bearing the mark of a Guard is brought here."

Trevahn began to walk again. "Including . . ." he trailed off, and rounded a corner. They descended a short flight of stairs, and soon the party found itself in a small room, twenty feet by twenty feet by twenty feet.

A young boy sat in the center of the room, wispy and ethereal; they could all see through him. He was dressed in royal clothing, and his hair was long, curly. His face was lovely, but sad. Pained. Terrified.

Trevahn gestured grandly.

"May I present to you Prince Selbin, Fifteenth of His Name, the last blood descendent of the Celestial Siren's natural-born family. If you would end this plague, and bring the dead back to their rightful rest, and send the souls of the damned along the Pale River as they should, then here is how you do it."

The prince opened his mouth, tried to speak, but couldn't.

"How do we do that?" Mokuba asked.

Trevahn dug into his bag, and finally fished out a stone. It looked like a gem, black with streams of blue and violet, sparkling like star-light. He gripped it in one hand, while his other still held the torch, whispered something in a language that none of them could understand, and threw the rock down to the stone floor.

It shattered, blinding them all in a flash of sudden sunlight.

When vision returned, Prince Selbin was solid. Present. They could hear his breathing, they could see his breath in the cold, dusty air. His clothes were a faded purple laced with gold. His hair was white as fresh-fallen snowflakes. His eyes were bright green.

He skittered away from them, terrified.

Trevahn drew in a breath. ". . . If you would end this plague, then you must burn it at its source."

He thrust the torch at Mokuba.

"Kill the prince."

* * *

><p><em><strong>The story of Princess Selena is a myth that I've been cultivating for a while. Ditto for the characters of Trevahn and Brenyn. See, my best friend and I have been playing Dungeons &amp; Dragons for a couple of years now. Once I started working on my own fiction, and building my own world, we decided to run all of our games in that setting. Avorah, this world is called. And Lorat (also called Mooncrest in my various notes) is one of those places.<strong>_

_**So, in case you wondered, most of the mythology in this little side arc of mine are my own invention. This is, if you like, a crossover between YGO and Avorah.**_

_**Thought you guys might find that interesting.**_

_**Join me next time for the finale of this venture. It should be a good one.**_

_**Have a fantastic day!**_


	60. Carry the Blessed Home V

_**Morning, folks. Before we get started with this one, I'd like to thank you for indulging me with this little side arc. "Carry the Blessed Home" was a bit of a test run for a full story idea that I had. I wanted to see if you guys would be interested in seeing a full campaign written out like this, but I also wanted to see if I could write something like this first.**_

_**So, let me know if you're interested in seeing this idea continue in a separate story, because I still have quite a few ideas on how to make this pod technology of Seto's into a much bigger thing than we have here.**_

_**It's only five chapters, so we didn't get much of a chance to see the game play out, but it's five of the longest chapters I've written for this particular story, so hopefully there was enough.**_

_**This final installment, subtitled "Pale Turns the Innocent," is the longest of all five. So, with that said, enjoy.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>Trevahn Fremont was a pragmatic man, the sort of man nobody liked for long because that very pragmatism—while a blessing in many respects—often led him to be the bearer of hard truths, the sorts of truths that most people couldn't swallow. Such truths could cut, and most people hated bleeding.<p>

He could have done this himself. He could have handled the work with his own hands, and been done with the song and dance. But Trevahn was a godly man, a devoted man, and he knew well his place. So he set the path in front of others, like a shepherd, and waited for his flock to follow him.

Which, indirectly or directly, tended to explain his drinking habits.

There were five of them, which was fitting. Each of them didn't simply jump at his order, which was a good sign. After a moment of contemplation, Trevahn could see written in their faces that each of them had different reasons for hesitating. He hadn't necessarily expected this, but now that he saw it, he realized that _this _was a good sign as well. It was perfect. Five champions, with five callings.

It was almost providence.

"Kill a boy?" the orc asked in a low, threatening rumble. Trevahn's eyes locked onto the creature as it hefted its axe. "You would have us set our weapons against a child? For what crime? What possible sin could he have committed, tiny and hairless as he is, that you would have us execute him?"

Trevahn's lips curved. "Vilaya," he whispered, too low for the others to hear.

Little Prince Selbin's eyes were like twin, terrified moons set into his face, and he seemed drawn to the orc, who spoke words that sang in his ears. The child licked at his lips.

Trevahn said, "Magic is a rare form of . . . blessing. Not many understand its use, nor its risks. Our little princeling only sought to help his queen. Protect his people from the marauders south of the Wastes. But the spells he wrought in chalk and blood called the long sleep upon us all. In his blood runs the magic that calls the dead to us. Only by spilling that blood can the call be rescinded."

"Is it certain?" the little magician offered in a little pip of a voice as it danced this way and that on the balls of its feet. Selbin whimpered. "Is it sure?" Eyeing Trevahn suspiciously, she declared: "Other ways, other spells. This one knows many magicks, this one knows many ways. Spilling blood without reason! Killing blood without cause! Waste! Tragic waste to kill magicians! Stupid waste to kill smartlings!"

Trevahn ticked down his mental list. "Ulria," he said softly. She heard him.

Voices began to sound from the crypts behind them. Trevahn turned slowly, watching without feeling as the darkness remained woefully intact. Then he turned back to regard the others. The boy with the fetish for knives was watching the dark as well. The knight was silent.

The druidess was focused on the boy. Trevahn realized that it was her turn next.

She knelt down beside Selbin. "How long have you been trapped here, youngling?" she asked in a gentle voice. The boy turned to look at her, opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't find his voice. This seemed to distress him more than the threat of the weapons and armor surrounding him on all fronts, because he clutched at his throat and looked about to cry.

The druidess put a hand on the child's shoulder. "Shhh . . . little one. There, now. No fear. Let go of the fear. It will strangle you." Selbin eyed her with sudden terror, and when she smiled and held out her arms, the boy threw himself at her and sobbed silently. His throat worked, and strangled little whimpers made its way out into the sterile air.

The druidess rocked the young prince like a mother would. "Shhh . . . there we go. That's a baby. That's my boy. Let it out. Let it _all _out . . ." She stroked Selbin's alabaster hair. "No one's going to hurt you." She eyed Trevahn savagely. "No one's going to kill you. You're safe now."

Trevahn turned away, ticking down the list again. "Allacinne."

The darkness began to speak again, and Trevahn put a hand on his weapon. "Well, now. Best we'd make a decision quickly, then. Do we do the work set out for us? Do we end this façade, and let the dead sleep? Or do we protect a symbol of lost innocence at the cost of a country?"

The knight's eyes narrowed.

Trevahn looked back at him. "They're coming."

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>Connor turned to face the others, eyes looking feverish. He'd been contemplating the dark like he thought it might actually rise up in some physical form and swallow him. "Well?!" he demanded. "The flower child's made <em>her <em>choice! Do we back her play?"

"Careful, knife-master," Jonah intoned. "Your anachronism is showing."

Connor sneered. "Shut up."

Rebecca threw herself to her feet and grabbed Mokuba by his shoulder-plates. "You're our last line of defense! Protect him! We'll handle _them_."

Mokuba eyed his friend solemnly, then turned to regard the boy. Sighing, he tightened his grip on his weapon. "Go," he said.

Rebecca smiled, then nodded to the others. "Let's show this fallen lord why we've been called. I don't know about you, but _I _wasn't chosen for my baby-killing skills."

Connor smirked, and flipped two of his knives into his hands.

Jonah slung his axe from its place on his shoulder, and it _crashed _into the floor of the crypt. Megan zipped around the orc like an excitable lightning bolt. Trevahn sighed. "The will of the champions?" he asked, eyeing the ceiling as though whatever god he worshipped might give him an answer. "Well, then. I suppose it would be my _duty _to join them." He looked back at Mokuba. "After all, you would surely _fight me back _if I tried to circumvent the will of your compatriots."

Mokuba eyed the battered noble.

He didn't speak.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>Trevahn Fremont wasn't graceful. He wasn't mesmerizing. He didn't even seem particularly skilled with the iron blade he had gripped in his gloved fist. He brawled like a barfly with a chip on his shoulder, not so much slicing through the undead as he was hacking, beating, bludgeoning them into pulp.<p>

More corpses lay at his feet than any of the others.

While Connor, Megan, Jonah, and Rebecca tried their best to keep pace with him, they all realized that this game wasn't about high-minded, epic fantasy; this was gritty, dirty, blood-spattered, and Trevahn wasn't some knight in shining armor here to show them how it was done.

He was the true face of a medieval army: brutal and unrepentant.

Rebecca shot a hand out in front of her, wrenched it into a claw, and watched with a grim kind of satisfaction as a thorn-ridden vine snapped out of the stones in the ceiling and wrapped around a zombie's neck. It rose up like a noose, and the thing's head _popped _off.

Megan shot lightning bolts from her thin fingers, while Jonah's axe whirled around him like a savage metal tornado. He, like Trevahn, was not pretty. He was not impressive. He was a wild animal, howling in abandon as the groans and grunts of the living dead bounced off the walls of an ancient catacomb.

Connor dipped and weaved through the melee, slicing off limbs and chopping at necks with his thin blades. More than one dagger hilt lay embedded in the skull of a corpse. Jonah was the first to really pay attention to the boy's character and its unreasonably dexterous movements.

Something dawned in his face, and he grinned. He looked at Megan and Rebecca in turn. "I think I've been thinking too small," he rumbled. "I've been using this thing—" he lifted his axe "—the same way _I _would. Hacking and slashing. But lookit _him_. Ducking and dancing around. This system doesn't give a shit what _we _can do. We're big damn heroes! We're in a game!"

Jonah reached out and clutched a zombie's head in one huge fist, and sent it _crashing _into the wall. It exploded in a sudden shower of gore and stone shards. Jonah laughed, and suddenly his orc's rampage rose to a whole new level. He broke into a run, leaped to the side, kicked off another wall, spun into a front flip and sent his axe in a downward chop that sliced a zombie clean in half.

Megan, taking her friend's cue, took on a level of speed such that none of the others could even see her; she _became _lightning, and crashes of thunder reverberated through the caves and nearly deafened them all.

Rebecca closed her eyes, and breathed slowly. Vines suddenly exploded beneath her feet, and lifted her up into the air. They wrapped around her limbs, keeping her suspended like they were comprising a living, writhing throne, and when the druidess's eyes opened again, they glowed like silver starlight.

The ceiling burst open, and moonlight shone through a hundred cracks and holes. The corpses caught in the light all burst into sudden, cleansing flame. Rebecca lay suspended in the air like she was preparing for a crucifixion.

Trevahn had long since stopped fighting, electing instead to stare at his new companions. Gone was the flippant arrogance. Gone was the misanthropic boredom. Something suspiciously close to a smile rose on his haggard face.

". . . Chosen champions, indeed."

Each of the four players heard Seto Kaiba's low chuckle.

_**Now you're getting it**_, he said.

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

* * *

><p>A creature borne of a sailor's night terrors tumbled and slithered. Its skin was blotted and blue, and it was oozing some kind of watery, puss-filled liquid with each lurching, squelching step. It opened its mouth and roared, revealing black gums and broken shards of teeth. Ropes of thick saliva swung out and dripped onto the floor.<p>

Jonah stared. ". . . _Fuck_."

The thing was _huge_, towering over the orc. The top of its head actually scrapped against the ceiling of the tomb, even though it was hunched over. If it had had room to stand at its full height, the gargantuan zombie would have reached ten feet.

Trevahn reeled backward, blinked, and shook his head. "Saints preserve us," he whispered.

Connor smacked Jonah's midriff with the back of one hand. "How's this for an anachronism?" he asked. "Boss fight."

And he dove forward.

"Brat's got more balls than the lot of us," Trevahn hissed, and sheathed his machete with a decisive jerk of his fist. Reaching around, he pulled a crossbow from its place beneath his worn leather pack. The players all did a double-take; had their NPC companion been carrying such a weapon before?

Had he been carrying a _pack_?

Setting a thick metal-tipped bolt into position, Trevahn grinned a savage grin. "Father, Our Father," he murmured slowly, almost melodically, "teach us, Thou, to fly." As the huge zombie lumbered forward, intent upon the white-clad boy, he fired.

The projectile _slammed _into the giant's forehead. It let out a screech fit to give Heaven nightmares. Connor scrambled up the thing's side and drove his knife deep into the creature's neck. Another swing, and another blade embedded itself into murky, drowned flesh.

The blades _ripped_.

The giant screamed, threw up its head, and _smashed _into the ceiling.

Jonah reeled back and threw his axe, which found the giant's arm and sliced it clean off. Megan _zapped _the other arm with a screeching, searing bolt that nearly disintegrated the offending appendage. Crippled and bleeding, the creature no longer seemed insurmountable . . .

Though there _was _still a singular problem: it wasn't dying.

It was shouting and shrieking and wailing and bleeding . . . but it wasn't dying.

It _was_, however, wreaking havoc on the architecture.

When the ceiling began to crack, and shudder, Jonah looked up.

". . . _Fuck_."

* * *

><p><strong>5.<strong>

* * *

><p>Stone and soil and the skeletons of the long-buried dead began to rain down on them, as the entire complex began to shatter. The humongous zombie was no longer a direct threat, electing as it was to thrash around and send its hideous bulk into the walls, pounding and hailing down ruin upon the heads of those who would dare desecrate the unholy court of the lichyard.<p>

It happened so quickly that no one had time to react.

A slab of granite dropped, the boy in white barreled into the tiny maiden magician, and then . . . silence. Crushing, cruel silence. Silence so pervasive that even the howling of a monster could not break it. There was so much debris blocking the pathway that the huge beast had no hope of reaching them.

Trevahn was the first to notice that the number that comprised "them" had decreased by one.

He kneeled down, and took hold of Connor's gloved hand.

It was the only part of him extending out of the pile of stone.

Megan looked horrified as she hesitantly stepped forward.

Trevahn said, ". . . Aca."

"What?" It was Jonah. "What did you say?"

"Aca," Trevahn repeated, rising to his feet. He stared at the squalling thing on the other side of Connor's cairn. He sighed. "Saint Aca. Bearer of Sacrifice." He turned to face his two companions.

"Another story?" the magician asked; her lilting voice was gone. "Another myth?"

"No. No myth. This is history. Saint Aca is . . . a pillar of the world. When Father God brought this world of ours into itself, brought a part of Himself into existence so that we, His children, might live . . . He first ensured that we would be taught. He took of Himself, built of Himself, five daughters. Each daughter became the mortal holder of one of Father God's cardinal virtues. Saint Aca, Blind Aca, most believe is the eldest. She is the eternal ascetic, giving of herself that others might prosper." He gestured. "Your boy. Rash and sharp-tongued as he was, gave of himself. That you," he pointed at the magician, "might live."

Jonah—struggling to remind himself that this was a freaking game, and that Connor Brinkley was no more dead, or even injured, than Seto Kaiba was—said, "And the others? The other four? Who are they?"

Trevahn pointed to him. "Saint Vilaya. Warden of Justice. The Lady in the Fountain, she who seeks all that is right, and all that is deserved. She was the first soldier, first to take up a weapon to defend her sisters."

He pointed to Megan. "Saint Ulria, Keeper of Wisdom. She took up her pen and wrote the words and rules of Father God, that we should remember them, and always keep our minds sharp, keen, never wasted, and open to all."

He looked at Rebecca with a grin that seemed wholly inappropriate. "Saint Allacinne. Deliverer of Mercy. When all hope is lost, and all her sisters have, for whatever reason, given a person up for a lost cause . . . it was Lady Allacinne who welcomed them. Enveloped them, embraced them. Protected them. She is the youngest of the five. The sweetest, the kindest . . . and yet, given proper incentive, the fiercest."

Rebecca frowned, and crossed her arms. "Are you saying . . . that _we _. . . ?"

"With no prompting whatsoever, without _any _intervention, each of you have taken up a separate mantle." He gestured to Connor. "Sacrifice."

Jonah said: "Justice."

Megan murmured: "Wisdom."

Rebecca offered: "Mercy."

"Who's the fifth?" Jonah asked after a moment. "You've only named four of these saints. But you said your god made five daughters."

"Ah." Trevahn's grin took on a dangerous quality, and his eyes turned flinty. "Well, now. Don't go asking a priest in town about _her_. Eldest, first of Father God's illustrious progeny. Wisest, fairest, strongest, most dutiful of all. The Fallen Pillar, who dropped from God's house and threw herself upon the shattered gravestones of all who have died in His glory."

"Fallen?" Megan repeated. "A fall from grace?"

Trevahn bowed his head. "Aye. Molestrine. Dearest of all. Most hated of all. When a king grows too prosperous, too mighty, to be contained . . . it is she who feeds him poison. When an emperor descends into total debauchery, it is she who delivers a knife to his back. When there are too many mouths to feed, she descends with plague and famine. When an army is so dragged down and ruined that it holds no hope of ever rising to see another dawn, she sends ruination to its enemies. She is the balance. She is love, and hatred. She does what needs doing. She is what must."

For a long moment, there was absolute silence.

Then the floor started to shake, the stones began to glow, and a new sound shook the earth: sobbing.

A child . . . sobbing.

Trevahn turned back the way they'd come.

Where they'd left the prince, and the knight.

* * *

><p><strong>6.<strong>

* * *

><p>Rebecca was the first to rush into the chamber, with Jonah and Megan not far behind. Trevahn was practically sauntering.<p>

Mokuba's knight knelt in the center of the room, resting his forehead on both folded hands, which had hold of the pommel of his sword. The tip of that silver-edged weapon was buried in the heart of little Prince Selbin, whose young face was frozen in a grimace of absolute terror.

"What . . . what have you _done_?!" Rebecca screeched.

Mokuba stood slowly, smoothly, and removed his blade from its sacrilegious sheathe. He turned. "What I had to," he said slowly. "Do you hate me? Then hate me. It had to be done."

"I thought you followed the Platinum Dragon," Jonah rumbled. His eyes were locked on the body. "How is this justice? How is this protecting the innocent? How can you look your god in the eye, having done this?"

Mokuba's face was noncommittal. He said, "I can't." He sheathed his blade with a quick jerk, and reached up to remove his cloak from his shoulders. The thick cloth, bearing the emblem of Bahamut, fell across the prince's body like a burial shroud.

His violet eyes were hard.

"Today . . . I shed my old shield."

Trevahn came fully into the room, barely able to contain his excitement. He strode forward, and took the knight's gauntlet in both hands. Lifting it up, he kissed the back plate. "Lady Molestrine," he murmured, "Mother of Retribution. The rarest of servants. Wear your new mantle with pride, knight. Become her hatred. Become her blade."

Mokuba watched the battered lord with idle interest.

Trevahn grinned.

The world folded in on itself.

* * *

><p><strong>7.<strong>

* * *

><p>As the pods whirred to sleep, the players woke. Mokuba was first to clamber out, followed by Jonah and Megan. Rebecca was last. She looked groggy. Looking around, they all saw Seto standing at his controls, with Connor beside him. He was talking to the blond boy, eyes flicking every few seconds to the readouts near his hands.<p>

". . . hurt at all?" he was asking.

Connor shook his head. "No. It just got dark. Kinda heavy. Like, I felt stuff on top of me, the rocks, you know? But then I just woke up. I guess that means the game ended for me?"

Seto nodded. "We'll have to get you a new character for the rest of the testing period. That is, if you'd like to continue."

"Yeah!" Connor's eyes were sparkling. "That was fun!"

Seto smirked. "You certainly seemed to grasp things quickly." He sounded proud, almost paternal. "Even Mokuba forget sometimes that the laws of reality don't apply. The point of the game is to twist what's possible." He looked up, saw his brother, and smiled.

Mokuba smiled back, for a moment, then his face lapsed into a frown.

Seto quirked an eyebrow. "Mokuba? What is it?"

". . . I went along with it, you know, 'cuz I figured that's how it went. But . . . I . . . are you mad at me? Or . . . disappointed?" Seto blinked. "I mean . . . you changed my class. I saw it. Althor's a warrior now. As soon as I . . . well."

Seto looked to understand. He nodded, and approached the boy slowly. "You gave me plenty of material so that I could put Bahamut into this simulation, remember? Defender of the innocent. The Platinum Dragon. Lawful good. Smite evil in all its forms. So let me ask you, Mokuba: do you think Althor Pendraeg upheld the tenets of his god in this scenario?"

Mokuba looked ashamed. ". . . Not really. I guess. No."

Seto smirked. "Do you think he did what had to be done? Do you stand by his decision?"

". . . Yes."

"Then no. I'm not disappointed in you. At all." Seto pulled his brother to him in a one-armed hug. "Stand by what your character believes," he announced to the others. "Embrace the moment. If they surprise you, you're doing it correctly."

Megan was nodding. "That's it. Besides, it all worked out. That bit about the saints? God's daughters? I liked that."

"Not sure what I make of that Trevahn guy," Jonah said. "Seems like your mouthpiece, Mister Kaiba. If you don't mind my saying so."

Seto smirked. "It might seem that way at first," he said cryptically.

Rebecca, still silent, approached Mokuba. She eyed him critically for a moment, then punched his arm. Holding a waggling index finger in Mokuba's face, Rebecca said, "You kill another kid, and I'm going PvP on you. You hear me?"

She grinned.

Mokuba grinned back. "You're on, tree-hugger."

* * *

><p><strong>8.<strong>

* * *

><p>Megan and Mokuba decided the rest of the day would be best spent recording a new game, with the others all joining in for the commentary as an anniversary event—she'd been building her channel for a year. Seto remained out with the pods, tweaking and prodding and reading and contemplating.<p>

He had a separate laptop sitting on the edge of his control panel, and after a while, a window popped up on the screen. It showed what looked like the main room of a medieval tavern, with a roaring fire, long wooden bar, and a multitude of tables and chairs.

Standing behind the bar, mixing a drink, was Trevahn Fremont.

He was the only patron.

Glancing up at what would have been the camera, had the window been a video feed, the simulation of Trevahn smirked and offered a jaunty salute. "Aha," he said, the sound coming not from the laptop's speakers, but from the sound system built throughout the entire room. "There you are. Everyone done for the day, I take it?"

"Yes," Seto replied without looking.

"My little redheaded pet disappeared. Where'd he go?"

"I removed Brenyn from the scenario," Seto said. "He kept trying to leave the crypt, and getting lost at every turn. Then he would try to attack the walls. Something about his 'free and unpredictable' nature made him ignore his own programming."

"Sounds like a metaphor for humankind." Trevahn vaulted over the bar, sat on the edge, and sipped almost daintily at some smoky liquid in a large tankard. "Speaking of, I wouldn't have pegged Althor Pendraeg as a turncoat. He seemed very straight-laced at first."

Seto scoffed. "My brother is a great number of things. 'Straight-laced' is pushing it."

"You wouldn't figure a boy his age would understand that kind of sacrifice. But then, he _is _a Kaiba."

"He is," Seto murmured darkly.

". . . When did you figure it out?"

Seto finally looked over at the screen. Trevahn had an innocent expression on his face, but his eyes were hungry. Seto raised an eyebrow. He knew that there was no need to actually look at the figure. That wasn't how _this _simulation worked. But he still preferred a point of reference—a particularly human flaw—so he maintained eye contact with the picture onscreen.

"Not long after your stunt with Meyari," Seto eventually said.

"Mm. Figures. Too confident in your own mastery, hm? Couldn't have been something _you _did. I must have tampered with her."

"It was too specific," Seto said. "And really . . . who else would go to so much trouble, to say nothing of how _obscure _it was, just to embarrass him?"

Trevahn grinned toothily, holding up his hands. "Ah, well. Looks like you've caught me. So . . . what happens now?"

"I have three options, as I see it," Seto said. "I can wipe every trace of you from every system tied to Kaiba-Corp's servers. I can _replace _every system tied to Kaiba-Corp's servers. Or . . ."

"You can ignore me entirely."

"Mm."

"Any idea which one you're going to choose?"

Seto scowled. "Not yet."

"Well, thank you, in any case. For letting the simulation continue. For letting me—well. If you want to get rid of me now, go ahead. I won't fight you. Maybe it _is _time for me to die."

Seto looked disgusted. ". . . Spoken like a coward," he said scathingly. Trevahn flinched. "Are _you _the creature that nearly killed me?" The Kaiba patriarch crossed his arms and stared incredulously at his digital companion. "I refuse to believe that I was bested by a sniveling afterthought. I must have heard you incorrectly."

Trevahn's head tilted, like a curious dog's, and he eventually chuckled. "You've changed, Seto. A lot. The man I remember would have shed himself of me without blinking. Yet here you are, telling me to hold on."

The lord's smile turned cheeky.

"Has my big brother gone soft?"

* * *

><p><strong>9.<strong>

* * *

><p>Long after Megan Howell and Jonah Townsend had surrendered to their hotel rooms, and Connor and Rebecca had gone back home, Seto entered his brother's room. Mokuba was already dressed in pajamas, preparing for bed. A towel was hanging around his neck. He looked over at Seto and smiled. "Hi, Niisama."<p>

"Hey, kiddo." Seto looked physically ill, but he hid it well. Or, perhaps the black-haired boy was simply used to the expression, and opted not to attribute any particular importance to it. Sadly, this seemed likely. "I need to talk to you about something . . . delicate."

_This _caught Mokuba's attention. He frowned, and sat on his bed. "O . . . kay? Is this about the game?"

"No. Not directly."

". . . Is it about Megan? She's not weird or anything, Niisama. She's really nice, and—"

Seto held up a hand. "No. It's not about your friends, either. This is something else entirely. I have something that I think you need to see, but I haven't quite worked it out enough to . . . confront it yet." He sighed. "Damn it. This is ridiculous. Come with me, Mokuba. Better to just show you."

Mokuba didn't respond. He stood up and followed his brother out of the room, out of the house, back to the pods. One unit was primed and ready for a user. Seto gestured at it. Mokuba blinked, confused, and started to speak.

"Just . . . get in, little brother," Seto said. "Trust me."

* * *

><p><strong>10.<strong>

* * *

><p>Mokuba found himself back in Queen Meyari's throne room, in his own body, and this time there were no guards, no zombies, no queen. Instead, seated sideways on the throne with one leg swung over an arm, was Lord Trevahn Fremont.<p>

He tipped his hat in greeting.

Mokuba frowned. "Um . . . hello?" He looked around. "Is this a test?"

"No," Trevahn said, hopping down and walking forward. "No test, Mokuba. That's over for today. I'm guessing your brother couldn't find the words, so he sent you to me instead. Maybe he figures it'll be simpler this way? I don't know."

"_What _will be simpler?" Mokuba asked, irritation rising on his face. "I get you're cryptic sometimes, Niisama," he directed at the ceiling, "but this is weird! Are we playing some kind of riddle game? Am I s'posed to figure this out? I'm tired! I wanna sleep!"

Trevahn drew in a deep breath, shook out his arms, and closed his eyes. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he began to shrink. His limbs became shorter, more slender. His face smoothed out. His hair lightened.

Before long, Prince Selbin was standing next to Mokuba, of a height with him and without the terrified confusion that had so marked him during the game. Mokuba watched, confused and nonplussed, as Selbin reached up and ran his hands through his hair. He did it again. Again. And another time.

With each pass, the boy's hair shortened, straightened, and changed color.

Mokuba's face slowly changed from annoyed to awestruck.

A thin boy with light blue eyes and bright sea-foam hair had replaced the prince.

He spoke, in a voice that nearly broke the young Kaiba's heart:

"It's been a while. Hasn't it?"

* * *

><p><em><strong>I think this might be one of the first glimpses into my fantasy world of Avorah that my audience has seen. I've published various things, I have a wiki and all that jazz, but still. This is something of a test run. What did you think? Interested in seeing more?<strong>_

_**I've always aspired to write fantasy. And when I do have a fantasy novel ready to publish, hopefully sooner than later, it will be set in the world you just explored with Mokuba and Company.**_

_**I hope you enjoyed the arc. Next time, we return to single chapters and single ideas. See you then.**_


	61. The End of My Broken Heart

_**It's kind of refreshing, to be honest, knowing that this story is back to the way it's supposed to be. Not to say I didn't enjoy "Carry the Blessed Home," but the whole point of this version of "Good Intentions" was to do snapshots. So, here we go.**_

_**Of course, there's a bit of aftermath to deal with, after the end of the last chapter. So let me get a couple of things out of the way before we begin.**_

_**Firstly, for anyone concerned about me bringing Noa into this story. Maybe you don't like him, maybe you think he messes up the Kaiba family dynamic, maybe you just don't like filler. Whatever the case may be, I can assure you that he won't be taking over the story. Seto and Mokuba will remain the focal point, around which all other subplots will revolve.**_

_**On the other hand, those of you who are excited to see Noa crop up in this story, I don't want you to worry, either. While he won't be taking over, he will be an important element in the story from here on out. I intend to strike a balance, is what I mean to say.**_

_**Also, anyone who has read "Cult of the Dragon King," keep this in mind: the Noa that I've built into that story will not bear much of a resemblance to the Noa who lives here. This isn't to say there won't be similarities; of course there will be. But this story's Noa will be much closer to his original character, whereas Cult's Noa was . . . well, a divergence.**_

_**Now, then. Let's get to it, shall we?**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>The first thing people tended to forget about Seto Kaiba, given enough time to forget about anything, was the simple fact that he was an inventor. He had spent a great deal of time in his childhood studying every aspect of his chosen career path, and since that path was technology, his skillset was much, <em>much <em>broader than people tended to think.

In short, the only person who _wasn't _surprised to find Seto Kaiba in his brother's room on a stepladder, with a hammer in his right hand, a screwdriver clenched in his teeth, and coated in dust, was Mokuba.

He still wore slacks and formal shoes, but there was an air of age about his clothing that said he was as casual as he would ever be—these were, in short, his "working clothes." His shirt was untucked, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

"Dare I ask what he's up to?" Akiko asked from the doorway, crossing her arms and eyeing her employer with keen interest. Mokuba smiled slightly, but his eyes seemed far away. Still, that look bordered on worshipful, and Akiko quickly realized that whatever it was that Seto was doing, it was something that Mokuba had been waiting for.

Seto suddenly stopped working, pulled his hand out of the hole he'd put into his brother's wall, and put on a confused face. Akiko noticed a Bluetooth headset tucked into one ear. "Yes, thank you," he muttered, "I don't need a soundtrack."

Mokuba giggled. "He's excited, Niisama. I don't think he expected you to actually _do _this."

"I'm full of surprises," Seto muttered. He brandished his hammer. "I am _not _putting one of these anywhere even _close _to my bedroom _or _my office. You hear me?" Seto's eyes went unfocused. "You hear me?" he repeated, more sternly.

"You know, you could have just made a bracelet or something, like a miniature Duel Disk, and I could have just worn that," Mokuba offered.

Seto's face scrunched up into something that bordered on religiously offended. "I don't _do _shortcuts, Mokuba. Besides, if word of this gets out, I'll never hear the end of it. No. He stays _here_. On the grounds." He listened to whatever was on his headset for a moment. "You _are _a ghost. Don't act like you're offended."

Mokuba giggled again. Akiko watched the pair at their antics for a while, chuckled, and decided she would be better served finding something productive to do. Part of her still felt guilty, whenever she received her paycheck from the Kaiba Corporation every two weeks, and she had been seeking out more and more projects to take on every time she was here.

As she made her way down the hallway, she heard Mokuba break into outright laughter, and when she turned around, she saw the boy in the doorway, doubled over and struggling to breathe.

She smiled. "You two are adorable," she muttered to herself.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>Noa Kaiba, dressed all in white, stood in Mokuba's bedroom and looked around himself. To anyone looking, he would have seemed like any other visitor. That was, unless anyone were to attempt to touch him. The hologram was perfect, but that didn't make its projection solid.<p>

Seto looked up at the _Solid Vision _projector he'd installed into the wall, near his brother's computer, and looked rather smug. Then, glancing at the two boys in the room with him, he turned stern. Noa stood up straight, eyeing the eldest Kaiba deferentially. He smiled serenely.

Mokuba still had no readable expression on his face, but he turned to look at his brother and waited.

"Guidelines," Seto said by way of an introduction. He pointed to the projector. "This will be on from the hours of 9 AM to 9 PM, Monday through Thursday. Come Friday at 9 AM, it will be left on until Sunday at 9 PM. These times are non-negotiable. Any attempts to subvert this rule will result in a probationary quarantine, to be lifted when I deem appropriate. Do you both understand this guideline?"

"Yes, Niisama," Mokuba said promptly.

Noa bowed his head. "Of course."

"Furthermore, simply because the projection is on does _not _mean you have automatic leave to be here. If Mokuba asks for privacy during any of the aforementioned hours, you are to respect that. That does _not _mean you can wait until he specifically _tells_ you to leave."

Noa smirked. "Of course."

"I will be installing projectors throughout the grounds, so as to . . . expand your available space. You will select a room on this floor, which will then be your private chamber, should you decide you want to be . . . outside, so to speak, but alone."

"Thank you."

"I trust that your simulation has the capacity to learn? Adapt?"

"Yes. One of Otousama's greatest breakthroughs, in fact. He detested the idea of static programming."

Seto's mouth twitched in what might have been a smirk, but might just as easily have been a scowl. "Very well. In that case, given that you remain a member of the Kaiba family, a position on the Kaiba Corporation's executive staff will be offered to you. We will discuss your skillsets and determine where to place you. You will be expected to be up-to-date on modern gaming culture, as well as our products specifically, both released and in development. This will serve as a baseline. Further requirements will be determined once you are placed."

Noa looked stunned, but as he absorbed this information, a delighted little smile rose on his face. "Okay. Great! I, um . . . I look forward to it. T-Thank you."

"Given your . . . incorporeal nature, I am assuming that a standard compensation package will be unnecessary. Somehow I doubt you need health insurance or a retirement plan."

Noa chuckled. "No."

"We'll discuss this later," Seto said, suddenly, as though he were just as bored by these minor details as Mokuba seemed to be. He looked down at himself, sighed, and waved a dismissive hand. "I need to clean up. Mokuba, you know the rest of the house rules. Fill him in at your discretion."

And with that, as suddenly as he'd begun this speech, he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>"You haven't said much," Noa ventured, as he pretended to sit on Mokuba's bed. "Do you need some time to absorb this? Should I go searching for my own room, leave you alone for a while?" Suddenly, a grim sort of look crossed his face. "You don't want me here. Period. Do you? It was fun, when it was just my voice coming in through your phones, but now that you can <em>see <em>me . . ."

"No!" Mokuba cried. "I mean, yes—I mean, no, that's not it! I just . . . I'm . . ."

"Having trouble adjusting," Noa guessed. "It _is_ kind of . . . off-putting, I guess."

"It's just that . . ." Mokuba sat down next to his adoptive sibling, and stared at his lap. "Well, I mean, you _died_. I watched you die. But . . . but you're still here. And I don't know what I'm s'posed to feel anymore. I was just . . . I was just getting used to—to you being gone. And . . . here you are."

Noa nodded sagely. "I think I know what you mean. But, you know, I'm still dead. As far as you're concerned, I've been dead since you were five." Mokuba turned to look at the boy currently sharing his room with him. Noa gestured at himself. "This isn't Noa Kaiba. This isn't the first son of Gozaburo, scion of the Kaiba legacy." He smiled. "I'm just a memory, given form. Did you have an imaginary friend, growing up?"

Mokuba frowned. ". . . Not really. But sometimes . . ." He looked over at the shelf over his bed, where sat his stereo, and his plush Sword Stalker. Mokuba clambered over and picked it up. "Sometimes I would talk to this little guy, when I was going to sleep, and I'd wonder what he might say, if he could talk back."

Noa nodded again, and stood up. Holding out his arms, he closed his eyes, and in a sudden swirl of light, he was gone. In his place was the huge, hulking mass of the monster that Mokuba's plush toy was supposed to represent.

The Sword Stalker turned toward Mokuba, flipped its golden sword so that the blade pointed toward the ground, and dropped to one knee. Then, another swirl of light, and Noa was back, still kneeling. He held out his arms in a flourish, like a stage magician. "Think of me like your imaginary friend, if you like. A particularly advanced program, meant to assist you in whatever you might be doing." He stood up again. "I am . . . an outward manifestation of all that the name of Kaiba has built." He smiled, and a twinkle visited his eyes. "Just like you."

Mokuba smiled. "Not exactly a normal way to cheer someone up, reminding me you're dead and that I've never really met you."

"Since when has this family been anything remotely close to normal?"

Mokuba couldn't help but smile. "Okay, okay. You win."

"I may not be Noa Kaiba," Noa said, "but I _am _the person you met all those years ago. So, you know, if that counts for anything . . ."

Mokuba's smile softened, and he nodded. "It does."

"Your brother's changed since last we met," Noa said. "The man I remember never would have done something like this." He looked down at himself again. "The man I remember couldn't have _built_ something like this. He's refined the technology. It's seamless. It's . . . flawless."

Fierce pride burned in Mokuba's eyes. "Niisama doesn't believe in resting on his laurels. He says he'll still be fine-tuning and refining _Solid Vision _on his deathbed."

Noa grinned. "I believe it."

A moment passed in contemplative silence.

Mokuba murmured, "Noa?"

"Hm?"

". . . I love you."

Noa's grin widened, and what looked suspiciously like tears sprang in the corners of his eyes.

"I love you, too."


	62. What You Do Will Be Remembered

_**As I write this, it is October the 24**__**th**__** in my time zone. As I post this, it should be October 25**__**th**__** in my time zone, which makes it Seto's birthday. If we look at the original release of the manga in 1996, wherein Seto is 15, we can extrapolate that he was born in 1981.**_

_**Seto turns 33 today.**_

_**Now, this chapter isn't specifically celebrating that event, as it would very specifically advance the timeline of this series, and I'm not interested in doing that just yet. And, obviously, I'm not using the "real" timeline of the series, considering Seto is only 20 years old as of the current chapters.**_

_**But, I've been posting a lot of another project recently, "Light a Candle for the Prince," which is a pretty dark take on the YGO universe, so I wanted to take a little break from that. I wanted to write something happy.**_

_**Seto's birthday seemed like a decent excuse.**_

_**October 25**__**th**__** is also the official date of Extra Life 2014, a charity fundraising event for gamers, benefiting the Children's Miracle Network hospitals. Look it up if you're interested in the event. I highly recommend it. Seto would approve supporting charities for children, after all, wouldn't he?**_

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hope I'm not being forward or anything, but . . . y'ever get any flak for runnin' a game company, boss? I mean, I guess of course you do, but I mean, like . . . how <em>bad <em>is it?"

Seto Kaiba watched a gaggle of eight-year-olds race across the Domino Children's Home soccer field; they were playing a particularly intense game of Don't Let the Balloon Touch the Ground™. Seto smirked, because it was in his nature to smirk, and he eyed Jennie Lorwell keenly. He said, "Are you referring to the fact that I am wasting my time and talents on a pointless pursuit, and should be ashamed of myself for perpetuating an industry that feeds on children and desensitizes them to sex and violence?"

Jennie smirked in turn. "Yeah. Basically."

"I've received death threats," Seto murmured, "because apparently irony is lost on some of my . . . fringe customers. People have called for me to debate the nature of modern gaming culture on every talk show in existence."

"And the only one you agreed to do was _The Colbert Report_," Joanna Lorwell, sitting on Seto's other side, cut in suddenly.

"Publicity," Seto said, shrugging. "I haven't the time nor the desire to prove my case to the masses anymore. I have enough work on my hands as it is. If a public appearance doesn't help the company in some way, I refuse to make it."

"You're an inventor, right?" Joanna asked. "Engineer? You've created the most revolutionary holographic imaging technology in existence. I suppose some people are, well, disappointed that you've devoted your time to ensuring that it be put to use through videogames."

Seto raised an eyebrow. "You sound like you belong to that particular camp, Miss Lorwell. In which case I would tell you the same thing I have told to everyone else to have tossed that particular rose at my feet: I created _Solid Vision _for a very specific reason. Without that reason, it would not exist. And as to whether that reason is noble enough? Self-sacrificing enough? _Worldly _enough? I honestly don't care. That isn't my problem."

Joanna blinked. ". . . Well, I'll say this: it's refreshing to hear that kind of honesty, at least."

"I serve as an example, to anyone who cares to pay attention, of someone who had a plan for his life, and executed it. That is the end of my story, as far as I am concerned."

"It's just . . . I mean, I don't mean to discredit you. It's just that, there _are _more—well, I'm sorry, but _worthwhile _pursuits you could be chasing, with the kinds of resources you have."

Seto's face screwed up into something savage, before he forced it back to cold neutrality. Joanna didn't notice.

"Can't be too hard on 'im, Sissy," came a new voice, as _Charlie _Lorwell came sauntering up to the other three with a soda in one hand and a corn dog in the other. "You don't get much more philanthropic than a guy who tears down a private military arms conglomerate, brick by brick, and rebuilds it into a company devoted to helping children. 'Sides, have you _seen _that theme park?"

Joanna frowned. ". . . Okay. That's a very good point. I'll grant you that."

Jennie hopped down from her perch—she'd been squatting on the picnic table like a bird of prey—and whirled around with her arms spread out. "To say nothing of _this _place," she said. "And then you got all the folks raising money for charity, using KC as a sounding board. And I _think_, yes-indeedy-I-do, that you're partnering with a bunch of teaching hospitals to try and make _Solid Vision_ a new tool for teaching surgery. Right?"

Seto nodded imperially. "Correct."

Joanna looked stunned. She said, softly and more to herself than anyone else, "That's _brilliant_."

"I _know_, right?"

"Seem pretty well-informed for a juvenile delinquent," Charlie said, ruffling his sister's bright green Mohawk. Jennie stuck out her tongue, but she was grinning fit to split her face. "Ever thought of going on tour with us?" Charlie asked. "Ya got the look."

"Everybody knows the keyboardist is the charity case," Jennie said, crossing her arms. "I don't want your blood money."

"Your brother is the vice-president of your company, isn't he?" Joanna asked suddenly.

Seto looked at her. "Yes. He is." A soccer ball rolled over to their table. Seto stood up and snapped a sudden kick that sent the toy rocketing back straight into the arms of one of the children who'd been playing with it. The rest of the group threw up their arms and cheered.

Seto smirked again as he sat back down.

"Do you worry, sometimes? About what that kind of responsibility might do to him? He's only eleven, and he's already got a pretty big responsibility. You know. Given that he _should_ be in _sixth_ grade right now."

"I worry quite often," Seto said, "but right now I see no reason to intervene. He's done well in managing his time and his responsibilities on both fronts, so far. I have any number of employees three times his age who could learn from his example."

"Cool your jets, Mama Bear," Jennie said. "He's still battin' an A in your class, isn't he? And I bet he's doin' just fine in his other classes, too."

Seto's smirk softened into something resembling a genuine smile. "He is."

"Kid's a regular Superman," Charlie said, chomping down on his corn dog. After he finished chewing, he held it up like a scepter. "A paragon for the Dork Ages. Ain't that right, big man?"

Seto winked.

He looked over and watched as Kristine Hathaway made her way across the yard with a stack of papers in her hands. Seto stood up. Kristine smiled as she approached and said, "Everything's in order, Mister President. Thank you _so _much for everything." She handed Seto half of the sheets in her hands. "Those are your copies. Feel free to look them over if you like. But all in all, I think we're good to go."

Seto shook Kristine's hand when she offered it. "Happy to be of service," he said, in all sincerity.

He then watched as Daniel Elliot came out, with a bouncy, bubbly Mokuba Kaiba keeping pace with him, somehow, in spite of the fact that he was waving his arms in every direction like he was trying to fly.

Mokuba held a single sheet of paper in one hand.

Even from this distance, everyone could see the grin on his face.

When Mokuba saw his brother, he shot forward like a track star and nearly barreled into him. "Niisama! Niisama Niisama _Niisama_!"

"Yes, Mokuba," Seto said fondly. "I'm well aware of who I am. What is it?"

Mokuba waved the sheet of paper around. "It's crazy! It's crazy it's stupid it's _amazing_! I can't . . . I can't . . . !"

Seto frowned. "Mokuba . . . have you _slept_?"

"Nope!" Mokuba cried happily. "Remember? Yesterday was the Extra Life thing! Remember? I've been up for—well, a long time. Anyway! That's not important! Look at this! _Look_!"

He finally calmed down enough to hand his brother the paper.

Seto took it, ignoring the stern look Joanna Lorwell was giving him.

Seto read quickly . . . then read again.

His mouth opened slightly. "Is this . . . this is . . . from a _single _event?"

Mokuba was beaming. "Uh-huh!"

"Twenty-four hours," Seto said. "You . . . you did this in _one _day."

"Uh-huh! Well . . . me, and Fox, and Madam, and everybody!"

A smile began to work its way onto Seto's face. He vaguely handed the sheet of paper to someone on his right. Joanna took it. Seto knelt down in front of his brother, and cradled the boy's head in his hands.

"Mokuba . . . you . . ." He gave up, and pulled his brother into a hug. Mokuba was laughing, and he threw his arms around Seto and seemed to be fighting the urge to do a little dance. "You magnificent little _miracle._ I love you." Seto kissed his brother's forehead.

"What . . . _is _this?" Joanna asked.

Mokuba extricated himself from his brother, blushing slightly at Seto's show of affection, but not entirely displeased. "Every year, there's this event. For gamers all over. It's like a marathon or something, where you raise money. And what you do is, you play games for twenty-four hours, and try to raise as much as you can. For kids' hospitals. I wanted to do it this year, and Niisama said it was okay, so . . . so I did it! And—and—!"

"What do you mean?" Charlie asked. "Like, you record yourself playin' games, and people donate money to charity if they like what they see? That kinda deal?"

"Uh-huh!"

"_Sweet_ gig, little man. Sounds cool."

"So how much did you raise?" Jennie asked. She looked at her sister.

Joanna looked up from the sheet of paper, clearly dumbfounded.

She said, slowly, ". . . Five-hundred thousand, six hundred and forty dollars."

Charlie's jaw unhinged. "Holy . . . _fuck_."

"Half a _million _dollars?!" Kristine asked. "You raised _half a million _dollars for charity in _one _day? By yourself. Playing games."

Mokuba hopped up and down, grinning from ear to ear. "Uh-huh! Uh-huh!"

Joanna Lorwell lowered the sheet of paper, and smiled. "Um . . . that stuff I said about worthwhile pursuits? Pretend I never said anything."

Seto stood up, and ruffled his brother's hair. "Good work, baby brother."

Mokuba, bouncing on the balls of his feet, giggled maniacally.

Seto's smile faltered.

". . . Let's get you to bed before you start hallucinating."


	63. I Was Born This Way

**1.**

* * *

><p>The elder Kaiba swept into the front parlor of his estate, black coat billowing out behind him. He removed that coat like a matador preparing for the fight, and hung it on a peg. With a quick jerk, he removed his tie and tossed it over the coat. He slipped out of his jacket, found another peg, and undid the top button of his black shirt. This he did with the quickness of long habit. He sat down on the couch and let out a long-suffering breath.<p>

A young woman entered the house, dressed smartly in a black skirt and cream-colored turtleneck sweater, holding a series of folders in one arm. She used her free hand to fish out a particular document and brandished it like a weapon. "You won't be able to ignore this forever," Akiko declared, sending a sardonic smirk over her shoulder.

This was met with a Kaiba's signature scorn for the mundane. "I'll get to it," was the eventual reply.

"Mm-hm."

Before any semblance of calm could settle over the room, Roland Ackerman announced his arrival; he saw the newly-arrived occupants, and bowed his head. "Master Kaiba," he said, "Miss Yoshimi."

Mokuba Kaiba groaned through clenched teeth, flung his head back against the couch, and stared at the ceiling. Without any kind of prompting whatsoever, he said: "What's he done this time?"

"Ah . . . there aren't really _words _for it, sir."

Akiko smirked devilishly. "Did Bocchan dismantle the microwave again?"

"He insists he put all the parts back this time, but it still doesn't work properly. But no, that's not what I'm talking about. He's in the backyard." Roland waited for a long moment. Then he said, ". . . Ready, sir?"

Mokuba sighed, forced himself back to his feet, and smoothed out his shirt. "All right, fine. Let's survey the damage." And thus, Roland Ackerman began his daily tour of the Kaiba Estate, and Seto Kaiba's latest _improvements_.

"Just out of curiosity, Roland," Mokuba said, "whatever it is Seto got it into his head to do this time, _why _didn't you stop him?"

Roland shrugged self-consciously. "Honestly, I didn't think he was serious."

"Well, now you know better, don't you?"

"Uh . . . yes."

The first place Mokuba checked was his brother's room. As expected, the place was an archaeological dig site, and he half-expected to see Seto pop his head out from under his bed with a spelunker's headlamp.

Roland showed him the kitchen next. The microwave only seemed to work for fifteen seconds at a time, and the clock was set to Greenwich Mean Time. Mokuba didn't know _what _the toaster was supposed to do anymore, but it involved eggs.

"So I think the cleaning staff needs a raise," Mokuba said, after extricating himself from the refrigerator. Akiko looked like she was about to have a stroke from trying to hold in her laughter, but she managed to make a note.

Mokuba went straight into the backyard without even bothering to look at any more rooms. He didn't think his sanity could handle an overdose of his brother today, so he engaged in his usual coping method: obstinate denial.

Contrary to whatever he'd turned his home into, the tortoise's outdoor enclosure was immaculate. A'Tuin was currently meditating on the nature of the universe, nestled in his conservatory, and Mokuba actually smiled when he saw the offering of greens and flowers that Seto had prepared. It looked suspiciously like a professional arrangement, and Mokuba wondered just how long it had taken the boy to make it up.

The young genius of the Kaiba family sometimes forgot to eat because he found it superfluous and boring, but he never forgot to feed his prized companion.

"Welp," Mokuba muttered, "at least _some _of his priorities are in order."

Then he made the mistake of turning his head, and finally found his brother, currently seated cross-legged on the pool's diving board with a notepad in his lap. He was scribbling something with wild abandon, and his face was a picture in Spartan concentration.

Mokuba slowly approached, with the bearing of a man about to face a firing squad.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, gesticulating only semi-randomly with his other hand, Mokuba said:

". . . I'm only going to ask one question. Just one. Why—and please understand, this is an important question and I need an answer this time . . . _why _is the pool filled with lime Jell-O?"

Seto blinked, turned, and smiled. "Moku-nii! You're home!"

"Yes. I'm home. Sharp observation. Pool. Jell-O. _Why_?"

Seto blinked again, looked back at the pool, then back at his brother.

"The warehouse store didn't have enough grape."

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>"I'm not gonna ask how long you've been stewing on this one," Joey Wheeler said, once he'd managed to control his giggling, "but . . . I mean, okay. <em>How <em>do you get _that _out of _him_?" He gestured to Seto, who was seated in one corner of the shop, near the counter, studying a newspaper.

Mokuba leaned back in his own chair. "Don't question me. I've made calculations. Kiko knows about psychology and stuff. She's studied child development, and she helped me figure this stuff out. If Niisama was my _little _brother, I'd prob'ly end up with a stomach ulcer, or at least I'd be an alcoholic, by the time I turned thirty. He'd be, like, a miniature Tony Stark. Without the beard. He'd drive me crazy."

Yugi was still laughing, and Seto was doing a remarkable job of ignoring him.

Joey raised an eyebrow. "Any thoughts on this one, Kaiba?"

Seto glanced up from his paper.

". . . He's not _wrong_."

* * *

><p><em><strong>So. This was inspired by a series of fan art pictures I found, drawn by a fantastic human being. Look for kintatsujo on Tumblr or Golden-Dragon-Girl on DeviantART. Seriously. But anyway, these pictures I found were a very simple premise: what if the Kaibas' ages were swapped?<strong>_

_**Suffice it to say, I was unable to let this idea go, and this is the first honest manifestation of it. Is anyone interested in a more expansive glimpse into this idea? I know I am.**_

_**As it is, I had to get this out of my system. It's weird and ridiculous and I love it to pieces.**_

_**Hope you enjoyed it, too.**_


	64. If You're Sick of It

_**A return to an old plot point. I was searching through my folders and drives and such, and I found something that I originally wrote a pretty long while ago. There was some pretty good stuff in it, so I decided to brush it up and show it to you.**_

_**This is a chapter dealing with the "Gambit Cycle," but it doesn't quite fit with the other two (Chapters 40 and 54, I mean) in a couple of smaller details.**_

_**For the most part, though, I think it's fine.**_

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Hey, did you see that infographic Kaiba-Corp put out to 'celebrate' <em>Gambit<em>?"

Joey Wheeler didn't like to think of himself as a negative person. He liked to think of himself as the _opposite _of a negative person, which he'd heard was called positive. Now, he understood how retail work . . . worked, and why it was important to smile while you were on the phone with a customer because it changed the way your voice sounded, and made you seem more inviting, and willing to help.

Smiling was battle armor for people working in retail.

Currently, Joey looked like he was actively chewing glass. While Yugi watched, looking rightfully nervous, the blond stared down at his knuckles like he was searching for a spot on which to tattoo a new conquest.

"If each sword in the Sentinels' arsenal was placed end to end, it would reach the moon and back seventeen thousand times!"

"Yeah, now if only they'd tell us how many of those swords were held by _actual _players, instead of bots. Oh, wait. There _aren't _any actual players!"

"Seriously. I can't believe people still play that piece of shit. Maybe if they'd spent time _working _on it instead of putting out juvenile crap like this . . ."

"Joey," Yugi said, preemptively reasoning with a tropical storm, "could you do me a favor and check the stockroom? Grandpa wanted to know if the new issue of _Moon Theme _came in, and if it just got misplaced."

Joey raised a slow eyebrow at his friend. "Uh-huh. Found it this mornin'. Ain't due out 'til tomorrow. Yugi, I swear to fucking _hell _if I hear one more word about that motherfucking game I'm gonna _eat _somebody's skull."

He was heard. Not that this was a surprise; Joey was not a quiet person. He was the opposite of that, too. One of the Unnamed Ones looked at him. "Hey, sorry, man. I know what you mean. It's freaking awful, isn't it?"

"Who the _fuck _asked you to talk?!" Joey snarled through clenched teeth. The two customers, currently embroiled over a tabletop miniatures game, both stared openly at him; they were semi-regulars, and knew Joey as a companionable sort. They had never seen him mildly annoyed, much less enraptured with fury like he was now.

". . . Jesus, dude, _sorry_."

"No. No, you know what? You're not sorry. None of you fucktards are goddamn _sorry_. I've had enough of this bullshit. I've been holding this in for goddamn months and I'm _sick _of it!" The pair looked at each other, then started to stand up. " _You'll sit there and listen to this, you sniveling shits _!"

"Joey, enough. Stop it. _Knock it off _!"

Joey leveled a glare on his best friend that would have scared off a feral bear, and Yugi was suddenly reminded of a time when he'd looked at this young man with terror instead of fondness.

"Pop quiz, dipshits. Who's the Chief Creative Director for _Gambit_?" Joey asked.

The pair looked at each other again. One eventually said, ". . . Mokuba Kaiba."

"S'right. Know how old he is?"

"Like, ten?"

"Close enough. You feel _good _about yourselves? I wanna know. I seriously wanna know the answer to this, because it's been bafflin' me for a good while now. There's people like you two all over the fuckin' internet, bitching and raving and slavering about how awful this or that thing is, it's a travesty, it's insulting, it's a piece of shit and I wouldn't buy it if you threatened me. Does that _validate _you or something? Does it make you tingle in the right places? Or are you just so knee-deep in your own shit that you don't notice the smell anymore?"

"Look, man, I don't know what the hell your problem is, but that game fucking _sucks_, okay?"

"No. _Not_ okay."

"Hey. Joey. Your name's Joey, right? Maybe you like the game or whatever. That's all good. But you have to acknowledge there's plenty of us that don't. There's a _lot _of us that don't. A lot of us were seriously disappointed."

Joey's lip curled. "Ever heard about that old idea of what to do when you can't say somethin' nice? Keep your _fuckin' _trap shut. Talk with your wallet. This smear campaign that's been going on ever since launch night makes me _sick_."

"We have a right to—"

"_Fuck your rights_!" Joey almost vaulted over the counter. "Do you know something? After this game launches, and you guys throw your bitch fits like fucking two-year-olds, Mokuba Kaiba, what he does is, he holds a press conference. He has people ask questions. Lets their _concerns be heard_. Then you know what he does later, when you're _still _not satisfied? He tells everybody that the feedback KC's been getting on the game so far has taught him something: he's not ready for this. He's not cut out for this, and he's stepping down from his position at Kaiba-Corp. The motherfucking _vice president _of the Kaiba Corporation fucking _resigned _because of this game. Says that if anybody has anything bad to say about this game, _his _game, then he's the one to blame for it. So, he says, he's gonna take responsibility for it."

Something dawned in Yugi's eyes, and the pair of customers suddenly looked less sure of themselves.

Joey grimaced. "I know that kid. That kid's my friend. I've never met a happier, friendlier, more dedicated little bastard in my life. He put his fucking _soul _into this game, and people like you just took a big old _shit_ right on it. Talking about how you're _disappointed_. You still _fucking __**bought**__ it_! And you wanna talk about _rights_? Do you know that people cheered when Mokuba said he was quitting? That he was goin' back to speeches 'n presentations, _symbolic _shit, and that his new job over at KC Kairos was going to somebody else?"

The silence that followed was the eye of the storm.

The bell above the front door rang.

"_THEY FUCKING CHEERED_!" Joey screeched, launching a display of trading cards and booster packs into the air with a furious sweep of his arm. "That kid's _career _might be ruined, at an age when most of us can't figure out how to _wipe ourselves_, and you little _fucks_ wanna make jokes about it? How 'bout this for a joke? You like jokes? How 'bout this one? Get the _fuck_ out. Right now. Pick up your _shit_, go out to the parking lot and get in your car, and drive it off a _fucking bridge_."

". . . Wheeler. That's enough."

Joey went stiff; so did the customers.

Seto Kaiba stood in the shop, his brother standing beside him; both Kaibas' faces were forcibly neutral. The two gamers at the table, faced with the direct objects of their ire just moments before, suddenly found themselves speechless. They went pale as bed-sheets.

Joey stared at Seto for a long while before turning away and stalking off into another room.

* * *

><p><strong>2.<strong>

* * *

><p>"I'm really sorry about all this," Yugi said while he rang up his customers' purchases. "He's not usually like that. <em>So<em> unprofessional. He shouldn't have talked to you like that." Yugi smiled. "I shaved off twenty-five percent for your trouble. If you decide you don't want to come around here anymore, I understand. May I recommend the Black Crown, over on the other side of town? I hear the owner's putting on a _Dungeon Dice Monsters _tournament starting next Monday."

He was rambling. He knew he was rambling, but at this point he didn't care.

Yugi didn't breathe again until they were gone, and he was alone in the room with the Kaiba brothers. Mokuba was sitting at the same table where Joey's latest eternal enemies had been seated, looking at a role-playing book without actually reading anything.

Seto stood off in a corner, looking at promotional posters.

Eventually, Mokuba spoke. ". . . I wondered if anybody I knew actually watched that conference."

Yugi chuckled nervously. "I'm not sure if anybody's told you this, probably they must have, but it took a lot of courage to do what you did. You know that, right? _I _couldn't have done it. Not in public. Probably not in private. I'd have just . . . run away."

"I wanted to," Mokuba mumbled, and Yugi nearly panicked when he noticed that the boy's eyes were wet.

Seto's phone rang, and he strode outside with it. Mokuba watched his brother go, chewing at his lower lip as he did, and Yugi wondered what could possibly be going through the young Kaiba's mind.

"You know how I make videos on _YouTube_?" Mokuba asked eventually, with a wispy sort of voice. Yugi nodded. "Some people I know, they're kind of like my . . . crew, I guess. We're kind of a team. They're all playing _Gambit _now. Sort of like a protest."

Yugi smiled. Mokuba smiled in turn.

"You and your team made a great game, Mokuba," Yugi said. "It just feels like gamers have gotten so spoiled that they forget how hard it is to make something like that, and their expectations get so far ahead of themselves that they're expecting an express ticket straight into Nirvana."

"Niisama's games are revolutionary," Mokuba said. "They paved the way for modern gaming. He _invented genres_. I thought I could do the same thing. I thought if I just watched real close how _he _did it, then I could do it, too." He laughed, and it sounded like a sob. "I did. I made something spectacular. The most spectacular failure in Kaiba-Corp's history."

Joey came barreling out of the stock room, stalked to the door, and threw it open.

Mokuba blinked, frowned, then looked at Yugi. "Um . . . ?"

Yugi shrugged.

* * *

><p><strong>3.<strong>

* * *

><p>Seto slipped his phone into his pocket, and turned around to find the spitfire-furious face of Joey Wheeler sitting an inch from his own. "Got a question to ask you, Moneybags," the blond sneered. Seto mused that it had been a long time since Joey had pulled <em>that <em>particular insult out of his bag of tricks; it was almost nostalgic.

". . . Yes?" Seto asked mildly.

"The fuck _you_ been doin' about this? I thought you were supposed to be that kid's big brother. Protect him. That don't just mean from guns 'n bombs, you _fuck_. Where the hell have _you _been for this shit-storm?"

There was a dragon in Seto Kaiba. Usually it slept these days, but every so often its eyes opened, and smoke curled out from behind its fangs. That smoke coiled in his eyes, and his voice was dangerous.

". . . Where I must be: away from it." Joey opened his mouth, but Seto cut him off. "This is my brother's career. This isn't school, or an extra-curricular exercise. I can't be a part of this. I had _nothing _to do with _Gambit's _development, and I will have nothing to do with anything that happens with it. This is his project, and _he _has to handle it."

"So what, you're just gonna let people _shit _on him? C'mon, Kaiba, we're not sixteen anymore! I know you better than that! You can't seriously be hiding behind that crap! It's _his_ job to handle it? Bullshit!"

Seto licked at his lips, something he very rarely did. More so than running his hands through his hair—more even than the twitch above his right eye that happened far more often than Mokuba thought it did—this tiny, innocuous little gesture betrayed that the dragon was not only awake.

It was fuming.

". . . Do you know how many times in the past three months I have dug my fingernails into my palms hard enough to draw blood? How many times I have had to bite through my tongue? How many times I have had to leave my gun in my office because I didn't trust myself to have it within reach of my hand?"

Joey's face slackened, and he took a small step backward.

Seto pointed to the shop. "There. Sitting in there. More depressed and angry than I have _ever _seen him. That's my boy. _My _boy! I taught him to _walk, _Wheeler, do you understand me? The first word he ever spoke was _my name. _When he told me that he wanted to join me at Kaiba-Corp, and start making games, the _first _thing I taught him was how to handle backlash, because _that's_ my job. I told him that there would _always _be angry, entitled, infuriating people who would bitch and moan about every little flaw. The greatest work of art on the face of the planet will have at least one person crying that it isn't good enough, or that it's _too _good, or that it's a waste of time to like it because _everyone _likes it."

Joey's scowl returned, but it was softer.

"How would it look, Wheeler, if I stepped in to protect him now? I've stood back, and watched him handle this entire debacle _gloriously_. Have you _ever _seen a public figure react to bad press as well as Mokuba has? I will _die_ before I ruin that." Seto looked over Joey's shoulder at the shop again. "When I saw him take the helm on _Gambit _the way he did, I wanted to cry. When I saw what he and his team created, I _did _cry. If you think that I haven't wanted to track down every single, solitary whiner who's ever said anything bad about my boy's pet project so that I could rip their faces off, then you haven't been paying attention!"

Silence moved in, weaving a slow circle around them.

Joey stared at his feet, and sighed.

Eventually, he said, ". . . Get older, ya start realizing shit. Like, how it ain't simple anymore. Life. Lessons. All that shit." He shook his head. "Watched you two for years. First I was tryin' to figure out what the fuck was wrong with that kid. Constellations just pop out of his eyes whenever he looks at you. How the fuck's a prick like _Kaiba _get a kid like that, a smart kid, to idolize him like that?"

Seto crossed his arms, and shifted his weight.

"Then _that _happened," Joey continued, and Seto didn't need to ask for clarification. "And it started clicking. Look, I dunno what the fuck I'm talkin' about anymore. Point is—you know that anime? _Bleach_? There's a line in there. Know why big brothers are born first?"

Seto raised a slow eyebrow. "To protect the little brothers and sisters who come after."

Joey's face brightened. "Yeah. That's it. Guess the Moku-man watches that one, huh?" Seto nodded. "Yeah. Some cool shit, right there. _Spoke _to me, y'know? Like, _I'm _a big brother. So I guess I got this idea in my head on how big brothers are s'posed to act. Logic don't come into it. The _right choices _don't come into it. Baby cries, you break someone's face. That's it. But . . . ain't that simple for you guys, is it? _Life _ain't that simple for you guys. 'Cuz you aren't brothers at all, are you?"

Seto shrugged. "Not really."

"Gotta teach him the right shit. How to act. How to handle shit. Damage control. Can't let the brother _genes _take over. Gotta be the _responsible parent_. Gotta be Dad. Right?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Well. A'right, then. I guess. You, ah . . . know better'n me how to work this shit. God knows _my _dad couldn't do it, so what the fuck do I know? I'll just keep making a goddamn idiot out of myself. Maybe he'll appreciate the _sentiment _behind it, huh?"

Seto smirked. "Maybe he will."

As Joey was turning to leave, he stopped and said, "Gotta say, Kaiba . . . your son's a pretty awesome kid."

The smirk softened. "Yes. He is."

* * *

><p><strong>4.<strong>

* * *

><p>"Grandpa's furious," Yugi said, two hours later when he, Joey, and Mokuba were seated at a booth in <em>Big Barney's Grill<em>, waiting for their "gourmand-approved" burgers and endless fries. "Yelling up a storm all around the house. Wanted to fire you for that stunt."

Joey, who had been doing his level best to watch Mokuba without making it obvious that he was watching Mokuba, looked out the window at his right and stared. "Usin' past-tense, talkin' maybes and might've-beens, there, Yug. What stopped him?"

Yugi chuckled. "Mom yelled louder."

"Yeah? Big Mama Mutou layin' down the heat?" Joey chuckled.

"She doesn't really get into the whole _electronic entertainment _age, y'know? But she's been paying attention to _Gambit_." Yugi winked at the young Kaiba, who'd been silent for the past half-hour. "She's seen you at the shop. Knows you're one of us. So she wants to know what you've been up to. She told Grandpa . . . she said, 'If you fire Joseph because he was the first person in this city to stand up against the _garbage _people have been saying about little Mokuba's game, then _I'll _fire _you_.' Grandpa tried to say she can't do that, it's _his _shop, but . . . well. Y'know. How often does _that _work?"

Joey laughed. "Oughtta make her a gift basket or somethin'." He finally looked directly at his young friend. "Oi. Moku. Don't hold it against me, huh? I'm a fuckin' moron and I don't know when to quit. Didn't mean to embarrass you."

Mokuba sucked in a breath, and it sounded suspiciously like a sniffle.

Joey ruffled the boy's hair and pulled him into a one-armed hug. "We cool?"

Mokuba leaned against the blond and nodded. ". . . Yeah."

Their food arrived, they ate in companionable silence, Mokuba signed an autograph for their server, and the world kept turning.

* * *

><p><em><strong>I'm cultivating a new theory.<strong>_

_**Missus Mutou, the mysterious woman responsible for Yugi's birth, has exactly one spoken line in the entire anime, as far as I have seen. Well, I'm pretty sure that she has a lot more to say than that.**_

_**Don't be surprised, is what I'm saying, if you start seeing her pop up from time to time.**_


End file.
